Ghost
by Evelyn Downs
Summary: Tobi isn't a good candidate for the Hunger Games. In fact, she's not good at anything besides working on a boat. When she's reaped in the 74th games, she doesn't expect to develop land legs and survive. She wonders if fate would have been kinder had she let her brother volunteer like he wanted to-maybe then it wouldn't be plaguing her with other, bulky district 2 careers, instead.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, everyone! So this is my first Hunger Games fic-of course, I own nothing of the actual saga/trilogy. Though, like all of us, I wish I did. I do, however, own a good portion of this here tale, as it is full of OCs. (I hope you don't mind...) Also I sort of made up District 4's culture and everything...just to make things more interesting. **

**Kay, you should know: I edited things! Yay! For old readers that happen to look back at this, there are a few little sentences that indicate newly decided things-like the fact that Mag and Hiram are Tobi's cousins. This has to do with a family history that I will detail in later stories about the Silverside family. For new readers, be aware that I will periodically edit chapters that have already been posted, just because it can take me a while to notice some of the little things.**

**Anyway, on to the tale! Enjoy!**

_I'm floating; rocked steadily by the gentle waves of the sea, face caressed by a warm, salty breeze that leaves a mist over my face. I'm alone—the only being in the universe, far away from District 4, Panem, the planet…the games. It's just me and the vast expanse of blue-grey water and white-blue sky. And I'm happy…peaceful. I hear fish singing from the sea foam and hum gently back to them, mimic the soft, musical whispers of the waves._

"…bi…Tobi. Tobi!" The voice jolts me from my meditative state, and I slowly opens my eyes. For a moment, nothing changes—I'm still alone with nothing but the crisp sky filling my vision. Then a face intrudes on the scene. My best friend and cousin's short, blond curls brush against her cheeks, a light scowl hovering over her brow.

"…Hey, Mag," I greet her softly. She scowls down at me, leans a little closer.

"You know, Tobi, it's awfully hard to bring in anything when our best sailor is lounging around on the deck," she complains. With a barely audible sigh, I sit up and push back a few white-blond strands of hair that have slipped from my braid.

"I'm not our best sailor," I correct casually, lean back on my wrists. Mag rolls her eyes, reaches down and pulls me to my feet as a scoff sounds to my left.

"Yeah right, fish bait," goes the smooth tenor. I turn to see a boy with the same coppery skin tone, dark blond curls and blue eyes as Mag leaning against the ship's railing, quirking an eyebrow at me. "You couldn't miss a catch with your eyes closed. Be grateful," he pushes off the rail and walks over to slap a hand on my exposed shoulder. "You were born with sea legs, fish bait…and it makes up for your utter lack of land legs."

"Shut up, kelp breath," Mag groans, pushes her brother in the chest. "You just wish you could trade your salamander feet for a pair of Tobi's fins." The boy—Hiram—rolls his eyes, turns around and heads off toward the captain's cabin.

"Whatever—just get off the deck before we pull in, guppies," he instructs. "The docks are going to be swarming with peacekeepers." Mag rolls her eyes, but we both feel our stomachs drop at the sinister implications of the casual comment as we head across the deck and down the stairs into the galley. Mag and I are both too young to be working on the King Fisher—District 4s top fishing vessel. The age of apprenticeship, legally, is 19, which makes sense: we don't want all of our trained sailors being sent off to the Games halfway through the season, leaving the boats short-manned. The only reason a fifteen year old and a 17 year old are allowed to work is because Mag is tall enough to be 19, and Hiram put in a good word for me. He's 21, and the first mate of the King Fisher…plus his dad (my uncle on my father's side) is Captain Morrigan, who owns the King Fisher-bought with money from his mother, Mags', victory in the 13th games. Mag is named for her. She loves the boat...but doesn't really approve of our early apprenticeship.

Under normal circumstances, our apprenticeship poses no real problems: District 4 is one of the luckier districts, rarely plagued by the white-clad peacekeepers. But today…well, today is always different. Today is reaping day, and everything changes for the next 24 hours.

Mag and I plop down at one of the galley's long tables, designed to fit the entire, boisterous crew of the King Fisher. I run my hands over the worn surface, remembering many a rowdy meal at this table. I sigh. Reaping day always makes me nostalgic.

"You girls jus' sit tight a minute, I'll getch ye a nice cup o' stew, warm the salt outta yez." The ship's cook, known affectionately as Catfish Joe, has long harbored the suspicion that too much brine in the bloodstream is apt to get someone reaped. None of us really understand where the idea came from—I think it's just Joe's way of coping with the helplessness we all feel at the reaping.

Within moments, Catfish Joe plops two steaming bowls down on the table, filled to the brim with his special King Fisher stew. The recipe is famous—everyone in the crew wants to know what's in it. The most we can ever figure out is seaweed and grouper; old Catfish will never divulge the rest.

By the time Mag and I have finished our meal, the King Fisher pulls into dock. My heart rate doubles, and I meet Mag's eyes for a moment as the boat rumbles to a halt. I feel distinctly uncomfortable at the sudden lack of motion—as Hiram is fond of saying, I don't have good land legs. After a moment, however, Mag and I reach our customary, silent agreement, and calmly stand to wash our bowls out. Joe lets us do it—he's familiar with the ritual—and when we're finished we walk halfway up the steps, sit down, and wait for the deck to clear.

When all the hustle and bustle of unloading is gone, leaving the deck mournfully silent, we dare to peek up over the top step. No one.

"Get on home, guppies," Joe chuckles, passing us on the stairs. "Say hi to that old octopus of yours, Tobi."

"I will," I grin. Joe and my grandmother have known each other for years—they grew up together back when the district kept all the girls landlocked. He used to smuggle her out on Trident Lagoon, on a rowboat he built himself. He's one of the last people to keep calling her Suki instead of her long, respectful title, Sukashiba.

After Joe disappears, Mag and I ascend the rest of the stairs and amble across the deck. I let my hand trail over the mahogany railing, gaze lingering on the rolling waves, before I clamber down the ramp and onto the dock.

As expected, the place is crawling with peacekeepers. Their clunky white uniforms stand out like bleached bone against the colorful stalls that line the docks as they bleed into the markets. The whole place smells overwhelmingly of fish and salt and spices. To some it is probably gag-worthy—I can see a few of the peacekeepers holding their hands to their faces to block it out—but to me it smells like home. I inhale deeply.

"Well, it looks like Dad and Hiram have left me already," Mag groans, hands on her hips. I look up at her with a small grin, pat her on the shoulder.

"Alright, Mag—go catch up with the captain. I've gotta grab some things around here, then I'm off to the Bobber." Mag nods, but she grabs my wrist as I turn to leave.

"I'll see you soon, Tobi," she says, locking eyes with me. I nod seriously. We won't see each other during the reaping—I have to stay with the other 15 year olds, and she'll go stand near the back with the older kids. The promise is simply another ward against the reaping; an empty guarantee that we'll both make it through, again.

"Yeah," I agree, clasping her hand with my free one. "You can come over afterwards and we'll go out on the peddles," I promise. Since we were children, Mag, Hiram, my brother Brook and I have loved to go out on the bay by my house in these strange paddleboats my father built years ago. It's become a tradition, every time the four of us make it through another reaping. Mag nods, disappears into the crowd, and I turn in the opposite direction.

I weave my way clumsily through the market, bumping into people and tripping over the fishing nets haphazardly strewn around the stalls. People ignore my bumbling passage, go about their business, as always. My first stop is a bright yellow and orange stall with a board above it reading simply "Super Duper" after a particularly ridiculed lure.

"Hello there, miss Silverside," the woman behind the stall greets me cheerily by my family name. I smile at her, saunter forward to look over her collection of shellfish.

"What's fresh, Flannery?" I ask her casually. She reaches forward, pulls out a giant lobster.

"Here—best of the day," she says, hands it to me, winks. "Only the best for you, little Silverside." I sigh, smile lightly. Flannery is one of the many who call me only by my family name, as opposed to my nickname, Tobi, or my first name. The Silversides have been around for a long time-no one remembers how long, just that it's a name to be respected.

"Thanks," I say, reach in my pocket and pull out the little canvas dry-pouch the holds the bit of money I carry. Before I can pull out the right coin, however, Flannery's hand covers mine, preventing the motion. I look up at her, confused, and the cheer has faded from her face to be replaced with tired sorrow.

"Not today, Silverside," she whispers. I nod, accepting her generosity. The rest of my dealings in the market place are similar. After just three more stalls, I've been given a good cut of re-introduced salmon, a reel of line and a half pound of seaweed for free. My final stop is a spur of the moment idea. It's a little out of the way, on the other side of the market from the Bobber, but it's always worth it. The Tangled Reel…a little stall owned by a man known as no more than Clam. He's an odd character, laced with scars, sporting an eye patch, but the nicest man in the district. He spends his days with his cat, Tuna, as his only companion, whittling beautiful trinkets out of fishbone.

"Hi, Clam," I say, lean on the counter and scratch Tuna behind the ear. He grins at me, his single, crazy green eye sparkles.

"Well hey there, Tobi! How're you farin'?" I stop petting Tuna for a moment, giggle when she nibbles my fingers for more attention.

"Well enough," I grin. "And you?" I scoop Tuna up and she offers a faint _mrrow._ Clam scratches his grizzly beard.

"You know how it is," he says at last. "Warm weather's fadin' out…the games are comin'…" he shakes his head. "It's about this time of year my fingers just can't seem to hold a knife steady." I shoot him a glance.

"I very much doubt that," I comment quietly, setting Tuna back on the counter. "Made anything new, lately?" I have seen almost all of his creations. I don't buy any—can't afford them—but they're beautiful to look at. A twinkle lights his eye, and he shuffles briefly away from the counter.

"I carved this little beauty out of a hammerhead's spine," he says excitedly. "I just finished 'er yesterday." He places a small bundle on the counter, unties the little felt wrapping. I stare for a moment. Before me sits a pale minnow, no bigger than the first two digits of my pinky, yet in perfect detail. A pair of sinewy wings stretches from back, so thinly carved they're almost see-through, complete with tiny, webbed veins.

"She's beautiful," I breathe at last. With a knowing smile, Clam takes my hand and presses the little figure into my palm.

"Take her," he says. I look at him, flabbergasted.

"I can't do that," I protest, but he cuts me off.

"Who better than you, little Tobiou?" I smile at the root of my nickname. It means "clear winged." Combined with my last name-a type of Flying Fish-it's a reference to the mysterious fish said to live in the bottom of the bay by the Bobber: The Clearwinged Silverside Flyer. No one's seen one for decades, but legend says that they all just moved to the bottom of Finnigan Bay on the day of the Rebellion. Grandma even says they'll come back, someday.

"Thank you," I finally say, back away from the stall. Clam nods, shoos Tuna down from the counter and begins closing up shop. The reaping is fast approaching.

"Happy Hunger Games," he says to my back as I walk away. "May the odds be ever in your favor, little Tobiou." I pause only a moment, stare down at the little fish in my hand, and head for home.

**So...what do you think? I mean, like I said-lots of OCs. Pretty much a new populace for district 4...hopefully it made some degree of sense with the books. Anyway, good stuff is coming up soon, so stay tuned! Haha...and really, reviews would be VERY much appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, everyone! SO here's chapter 2-right off the bat! I will probably throw chapter 3 up here as well, just to give you guys a good sample before I decide to keep going. You know me-I will probably stop if I feel like no one likes this (I tend to do that...my track record is bad...)**

**Anyway, this one's a little shorter than the first one, but still plenty of...what do you call it? Establishment? Lots of that...intro info. So yeah-hope you're getting familiar with Tobi's world...and that her many names don't confuse you.**

**New note! I edited this a little-not much, at all. I'm just doing some backtracking to implant some info on the Silverside family, and just correct the occasional typo or tense discrepancy. And if there's anything college will do for you, it's learning to catch those passive verbs! Haha...anyway...**

**Enjoy!**

The Bobber is part of the Tributary—the oldest part of the district. It sits out on the bay, little more than a floating houseboat. It's the last remaining house built out on the water—that's why they call it the Bobber. It's supposed to be the Mayor's house…but we don't really have a mayor anymore. Not officially. The district secretly elected Grandma Suki when Brook and I were little, but the officials don't recognize her authority. Not since the district became one of the richer districts, constantly micromanaged by the Capitol's planted officials. Still, the people gave the Silverside family the Bobber, and they look to Grandma whenever they need guidance, which is why there's a little dock built out on the bay, close to the Bobber, with a little bait shop where people go who want to meet with Grandma. After all, she's a Silverside-even if just through marriage. District four still looks to the Silversides.

"I'm home," I announce after I step off the dock onto the Bobber.

"In here!" Grandma's voice floats up the stairs from the galley. I begin descending into the belly of the Bobber, smile when the scent of frying squid reaches my nose, tempered with spices. The galley is warmly lit with the soft lights that hang from the ceiling, colored blue by the glow from the portholes. It's lined with a stove and long countertops, currently crowded with chopped sea oats, cordgrass and a few clumps of Orach leaves, with a loaf of seaweed bread decorating the center of the booth in the far corner. I smile—she's preparing a feast, even on a day as bitter as this one.

I walk up behind her, wrap my arms around her middle and rest my chin on her bony shoulder. Grandma Suki is as short as I am—she and I are the only two in our family I know of who are shorter than 5'7 ½".

"Hi, Grandma," I murmur, take a deep breath. "Smells good." She chuckles.

"Of course it does—I made it." I laugh too, and let her go to walk over and lean against the table.

"Catfish Joe says hi," I tell her, once more fiddling with the little figurine from Clam. She scoffs.

"That old wave dog," she grumbles. "Why doesn't he ever show his face around here, anymore…" I don't bother answering. The ongoing flirtation between Grandma Suki and Catfish Joe is something I have little more than an amused interest in.

"Where's Brook?" I ask instead. Grandma's shoulders sag a little.

"Not home yet." Her voice is a little forced, understandably. She doesn't approve of Brook having joined Shipwreck…and neither do I. It was founded when District 4 started becoming one of the career districts, to train kids for the Games. My brother joined right after his 12th birthday…I scowl at the figurine. Brook has it in his head that he's going to volunteer someday, and every year he starts to mean it more.

"You don't think he'll actually go for it, do you?" I ask quietly. She doesn't need to ask what I'm talking about, merely laughs bitterly.

"He hasn't gone completely mad," she croaks. "He's not even 15 yet." I shrug, not wishing to dwell on the prospect. After a moment, Grandma wipes her hands on her apron and turns to me with a smile, leaving the squid to sizzle on the stove. "Now, why don't you go upstairs and change out of your boat clothes," she suggests, places her hands on my shoulders and steers me toward the stairs. "I laid something nice out on your cot. When your brother gets home, tell him the same and come down for a little something before…before we leave." I nod, unnerved by the edge of nervousness in her old voice. Even after so many years, after children and grandchildren and her own reapings, Grandma Suki is still nervous on reaping day.

My room is in the back of the boat, with one of the Bobber's largest portholes on the back wall, a writing desk nailed in place beside it, and my cot built into the right wall, along with a few little cubbies. A soft yellow lantern dangles from the ceiling. Grandma has laid a simple button-up dress out, cream with navy blue stripes and a classic sailor's collar. I run my hands over the worn fabric, smile. It's one of her old dresses—I can tell by the initials, S.S., sewn into the hem. I quickly remove my sleeveless, salt-stiffened shirt and canvas pants, leave them piled on the floor and step into the shower just outside my room. We're lucky—our boat has one of the few showers in this part of town. My father installed it when we moved into the Bobber. It works by pulling in salt water and distilling it, then spitting it back out. It can't get warm, but that's alright. I like cold water.

"I'm home!" Brook's deep voice floats over the boat just as I finish buttoning up my dress and French braid the front of my hair so that it cuts diagonally across the front of my forehead before falling to frame the right side of my face. I step out into the hall, walk up to the deck and sit with my legs dangling down towards the water. Grandma set out a pair of tan lace-up sandals with the dress, but I haven't put them on yet. "Hey there, Tobi," Brook says, chipper, and reaches down to wrap his arms around my waste and twirl me around. "Aren't you all dressed up, little silverfish!" I can't stifle a little giggle, even though I try to. Ever since we were small, Brook has far surpassed me in size—he's already hit 6'1", with brawny shoulders and tan skin. By comparison, I am small and my skin remains persistently pale, retaining no more than the barest touch of sun. Brook thinks his height gives him license to act like the older sibling.

"Grandma laid out clothes for you on your cot," I tell him when he sets me down. He grins.

"Great! I want to look good when I step up on that stage—the world will be watching!" he says, kisses me on the temple and walks inside. I glare fearfully after him, heart sinking. He means to actually do it this time…and I don't know how to stop him.

**The reaping is creeping closer and tensions are running high...what will Tobi do? Can she figure out a way to stop Brook from volunteering, or...**

**Alright-the next chapter is where this story really starts to intersect with Suzanne Collins' brilliant novels. Don't go away-stay tuned! And if you're feeling generous, leave a bit of advice behind (in the form of a review...) and you will win-the honor of being a tribute~! Oh, wait...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, chapter 3, here we go! I know these have gone up really rapid-fire, but as a reader I would prefer it this way. I always hate when I read a chapter and then there isn't a more! I mean, there's the excitement of more probably coming, but still...anyway, I've probably only got one more chapter worth of pre-written material. After this the updates will get much slower, so hopefully these will give people something to munch on in the mean time.**

**Officially edited! Huzzah. You know-not much. Again, just some basics, and a reference to Tobi's family again. In case you're wondering by now, there's a reason her parents haven't really been touched upon; their story is one to be told in another story, entirely. However, if you're really dying to know, just shoot me a line about it!**

**Anyway, here ya go. Enjoy!**

I dig my feet into the sand, let it slip into my sandals and between my toes as we walk toward the Sandbar. Grandma leads the way, dressed in her customary teal, toga-style dress and sandals, shoulders square. Brook practically prances after her, and I shuffle in the rear until we reach the long line leading up off the beach and onto the long, brick-paved portion of the dock the rises out of the district like a sandbar—hence the name. A temporary stage has been raised on the far end, with a great screen stretched behind it, and the Sandbar is ringed with little tables where all the kids between 12 and 18 have to check in. Every time we do this I feel like a marlin...or a minnow. Just swimming right along with the school, straight toward a waiting shark...

"I'll meet you two at the docks afterward," Grandma says placing a hand on each of our shoulders and squeezing. For an instant, I watch a glimmer of hesitation pass across Brook's face, then his confident smile is back. He turns, bends and places a kiss on Grandma's cheek.

"Bye Grandma," he murmurs. Her old face seems to deflate, and we share a desperate glance before she sighs and strides away to join the adults. I wait until she's out of earshot before turning to stare up at Brook as we join the line to the little check-in tables.

"…Are you gonna volunteer?" I ask, bluntly. He doesn't look at me, merely nods.

"Yeah." I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it. "I'm almost fifteen, Tobi. I've been training to do this for two and a half years. I'm ready." I sigh softly; it wouldn't do any good to challenge him. He's clearly made up his mind... I reach delicately into one of the pockets in the skirt of my dress, wrap my fingers around the little figurine I've kept there, and follow Brook forward to the table. They prick our fingers, dab the blood on little sample cards, and shuffle us up onto the Sandbar, where we're organized in groups based on age. Thankfully, I'm able to stand right next to Brook; he's in the boys, 14 category, right next to the girls, 15. We manage to each maneuver to the edges of our groups, and I note nervously that he's staring rather gleefully toward the stage.

The crowd falls into an electrified hush as our district's eccentric escort, Blye Cobalt, wobbles onto the stage. I quirk an eyebrow at her ridiculous appearance, hear a muffled snicker from Brook. The woman is dressed in an extremely puffed out, saffron silk dress, with the sleeves trailing over her hands and the skirt twisted around her knees. Her hair—or is it a wig?—seems to spiral up off her head and has been dyed a vibrant orange with black spirals through it. Her face, typical of the capitol, is unnaturally white, eyes lined with the same deep orange as her hair and eyelashes spiking out from her face like thorns. Her lips are the same shade as her dress and they sparkle unnervingly when she speaks.

"Welcome, everyone!" her voice blasts through the mic. She offers a wide grin, orange mouth stretching oddly across her face. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" I feel the crowd settle in to its usual apathy as Blye begins her speech—the same one she gives every year without fail. She cheerfully introduces the film that plays every year, and we all watch with a careful numbness as we are told via voiceover how inevitable our eternal subjugation is, thanks to the implementation of these heroic games.

When it finally ends, my stomach churns. I can almost feel the eager energy rising off of Brook in waves, and I grit my teeth. Maybe I'm imagining it—maybe he'll come to his senses.

"Wasn't that just wonderful?" Blye asks into the mic. "It should make each of you proud to be safeguarding our future! We depend on you," she says far too sweetly before getting down to business. "Now, the time has come to select two courageous young people for the honor of representing district 4 in this year's—the 74th annual hunger games!" her excitement is meant with a nervous shuffle, and a rather thick silence. My eyes are glued to Brook's face. "Shall we start with the gentlemen?" I'm only slightly surprised—usually she says "ladies first!" Oh well…let's get it over with!

Her hand hovers over a large bowl on her left for a moment before it swoops down, snatches a slip of paper and draws it out. She unrolls it, reads a name. "Oscar Tigerfish!" The screen flips over to the petrified face of a young 13 year old boy. My heart sinks—he's scrawny, with a head of coppery curls and a smattering of freckles over his tanned skin. His green eyes are wide, and he moves like a zombie. All of it makes what I'm about to do harder—after all, Brook would stand a better chance than this kid in the games. I harden my heart. Not enough of a better chance.

The world moves in slow motion for an instant as Brook's hand drifts up, his mouth opening. Before he can make any sound, I pinch his arm hard enough that he yelps. He casts me a glare, but I yank him into a stoop as smoothly as I am able, pull him around in front of me and clamp my hand over his mouth. Some of the kids around throw us odd stares, but no more. For a moment, Brook is too startled to struggle. By the time he starts, it's too late; Blye has moved on to the girls, and Brook has lost his chance until both tributes have been picked. I release him, and he straightens instantly, stares toward the stage with a sort of disbelief. Finally he turns to me, a glare on his face.

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

"Saving your life." I offer him the most sincere expression I can, trying to convey to him why I stopped him—what it would do to me, to Grandma, if he volunteered. I watch his frown loosen into a sort of understanding. Hopefully he sees the determination in my face. If he tries this stupidity again, I will stop him.

And then faceless hands are suddenly grabbing me, pushing me toward the stage. What? I lock eyes with Brook; his face is ashen. I am pushed out into the aisle, where I stand, frozen. Across the way, I watch Mag push her way through the crowd of 17 year olds, nearly falling into the aisle herself. There are tears on her cheeks, her fists are knotted into the fabric of her salmon dress. I meet her gaze, and the last few minutes rush back into my mind, perfectly, horribly recorded by my subconscious.

"Kuria Silverside." Blye's voice still echoes, however silently, through the Sandbar, my name on her lips. _Kuria Silverside_…by full name. No one calls me Kuria—not even Grandma. The last person to call me that was Mom…what a sickening comparison.

"Kuria Silverside?" Blye's voice comes again, prompting me out of my frozen state. I turn slowly, face the stage, and begin walking; one foot after another.

"Tobi!" I hear Mag scream behind me.

"Tobi!" Brook's voice is a bellow, the scream of an orca. An empty smirk dawns on my face. I saved him…I kept him volunteering, and now I'm climbing these steps in his place. The world is full of ironies…but things are better this way. I just hope Grandma can keep him from volunteering next year, because I won't be there. _I won't be there…_I trip, the lip of my sandals catching one of the stairs. I land on my knees, hands on the stage. _No land legs._ I giggle once, have to fight hard not to begin cackling with the hysteria that bubbles in the back of my throat.

"Oh my!" Blye greets when I finally reach her, expression caught between amusement and contempt. "Are you alright, dear?" I nod, stare out over the crowd. Captain Morrigan; Hiram; Catfish Joe; Clam; Flannery; Mag; Brook; Grandma. I find each of their faces, latch on, one at a time. They are all wearing the exact same expression. "Well, let's hope you don't pull any of that in the arena!" she chuckles. I turn to her slowly, almost astounded by the tasteless joke. Almost, but not quite. She's from the Capitol, after all—to them, this is a grand festival. A holiday. Fun.

"Well, miss Silverside," she pats me on the shoulder. "Congratulations on being selected for this year's hunger games!" Her words are met by silence, but she continues on, unaffected, as I face Oscar, shake his hand. It's clammy…but mine probably is, too. "Now, we have both our tributes: Oscar Tigerfish, and Kuria Silverside. Happy Hunger Games!"

In a blur, we are escorted to the Lighthouse. It stands in the center of the district, right behind the Sandbar. It's sort of the center of official business…really just a building in the district taken over by people from the capitol. Oscar and I are walked up the stairs to the top floor. There are two rooms, opposite one another with a light on the middle. The Lighthouse is one of the oldest buildings in the district—still standing from the days before the districts, before the capitol. I wonder if the light still works.

I pace for a while before coming to rest with my hands against the windowsill. I'm staring out at the ocean, lost in thought, when I hear the door open. Brook stands in the doorway, my Grandma right behind him. In a flash of motion, he's across the room, sweeping me into the tightest bear hug I've ever experienced. I wonder fleetingly if my ribs will crack before he sets me down. When, at last, my feet touch the ground, he holds me at arm's length, bends down to stare into my face.

"Tobi," he begins, all seriousness, his bitterness over volunteering apparently gone. "How many years have you worked on the King Fisher?" he asks. I frown—my mind isn't keeping up. Where is he going with this?

"Two and a half." I answer quietly. He nods—he knew that.

"Listen, Tobi—that's hard labor out there. You know how to handle fishhooks, nets, knots…you know how to handle a boat, and I've seen you gut a fish faster than Clam." I smile—it's a high compliment. Clam's dexterity is legendary—how else could he carve like he does? He's long been known as the fastest with a knife.

"That stuff's all great for the King Fisher," I say softly, smile watery. "But these are the games, Brook. These are other people…Careers, people who know how to kill. Like you," I punch him lightly in the shoulder. "I don't stand a chance…"

"But you do!" He shakes me a bit by the shoulders. "You do, silverfish. Trust me—you're better at this stuff than you think. Just…promise you won't give up." I nod slowly. I don't know where his groundless confidence comes from, but I can't deny it. For once, I'm glad he's acting like the older one. Suddenly an old, withered hand pats Brook's shoulder, and Grandmas voice floats out from behind him.

"Alright, step aside boy," she commands. Brook kisses me once on the forehead before stepping back so that Grandma can reach me. For a moment, she simply stares at me. Then she steps forward, pulls me into a hug. It's not crushing like Brook's, but soft a warm. I bury my face in her shoulder, tears at last breaking through the numbness.

"Grandma…I love you," I mumble. A pang of regret nearly chokes me as I remember how few times I have ever said that. To either of them. I'm not very vocal about my feelings—I show I care in other ways, generally speaking. But suddenly I wish I could reverse time, go back and say it every day. "I love you."

"I know." Her voice is as soft as mine, but infinitely stronger. I remember in passing that she's outlived both of her children and their husbands, even my other cousins...She pushes me back like Brook did, steers me to a rather luxurious couch in the far corner. "Tobiou," she says, conjuring again that full nickname. "Kuria Silverside…do you know why we named you that? The family name…we're the fastest of dartfish, Tobi. So fast we have streaks of silver over our scales. And Kuria…Tobiou…you're our mysterious clearwinged flying fish." She leans forward, whispering into my face. "You're faster than the rest...you can take off." I shake my head.

"Running fast isn't the same as flying, grandma…"

"Ssshhh!" she lightly taps my cheek. "You're wings are clear, Tobi. They're invisible," she says. "But when you need them, they'll let you soar." I nod, pull the little figurine out of my pocket. My hand has been clenched around it this entire time. I hold it out, and grandma takes it delicately, smiling.

"Clam made it," I explain. She holds it up to the light from the window and to my surprise, light actually filters through the delicate wings. I knew they were thin, but not that thin! Suddenly I'm impressed they haven't broken.

"It's perfect for you." Brook says. And then the peacekeepers storm in, and in a flurry of final goodbyes, Brook and Grandma are gone.

Perhaps five minutes later, the door bursts open again. Mag rushes in, followed by Hiram and the captain. Mag sobs, the captain remains sorrowfully silent. Hiram offers a pep talk much like the one Brook gave me, and the remainder of our three minutes is spent with the captain recounting the story of my first day aboard. He says he thought I must have been born on a boat.

"You always did have your sea legs," Hiram says at last, holds the end of my white-blond braid between his fingers and bows comically. "Just find your land legs before you hit the arena, fish bait."

**Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have our tributes! On to the capitol! The fare for taking the bullet train is one review per passenger...stay tuned for more depressing changes in Tobi's life...and one that turns out better than she thought. (but that won't happen for a while...) And again, if you have any questions, suggestions, critiques or you just want to say how much you love me (right?) just drop in a review.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, so I may have lied...there will be one more chapter at the ready after this one, mostly because this ones a little bit short. (sorry...) I just found the right cut-off point, you know? So it's maybe a little bit of a teaser into chapter 5...but then things will come in bigger chunks, I promise.**

**Kay, another chapter: edited. Check! **

**Anyway, have fun on your trip to the capitol with Tobi, Oscar, Blye and Finnick!**

The trip from the Lighthouse to the station is like throwing a rotten minnow to a cluster of gulls—pure chaos. Oscar and I are escorted by a full fleet of peacekeepers through the streets just outside the district limits, crowded with photographers and newscasters from the capitol. I try to keep my face blank, strong yet neutral. This is the first level of vultures—people just waiting to pinpoint exactly how weak I am. As we are shoved into the waiting car, I elbow Oscar in the side.

"Toughen up," I whisper to him at his accusatory glance. He frowns, and I sigh, not really sure why I'm helping him. I suppose it's because no matter which way I look at it, he's still just a 13 year old kid. _You're just a kid…_a voice in my head argues. But he's not my enemy until I hit the arena. For now, he's a victim the same as me. "Don't let them see how scared you are—it'll affect your sponsors in the future." He nods slowly. The fear doesn't leave his face, but I've done what I can.

By the time we reach the bullet train, even my mask is cracking. The sheer amount of photo flashes that have assaulted my eyes is enough to permanently blind anyone, and my jaw is sore from clenching my teeth.

"Alright—here we are!" Blye exclaims delightedly from behind us, pushes us gently into the train. "Oh, isn't this just divine! Look at this dining car…and the viewing room! Isn't this just amazing?" I can't help but agree. The train was beautiful from the outside—all sleek silver—but nowhere near the extravagance inside. Finely furnished with mahogany tables, green velvet furniture and layers of intricate carpets…it's finer than anything I've ever seen. And District 4 is considered one of the wealthier districts. I wonder what tributes from the outlying districts think of all this.

My room is equally splendid. I'll only need it for a night or two—the train moves so quickly, the journey across half of Panem is reduced to a mere couple days—but it's the epitome of luxury, all the same.

"Why don't you two get changed into something nice and clean yourselves up for dinner," Blye's voice penetrates the walls from where she stands in the hall between my room and Oscar's. "There should be plenty of suitable options in your drawers!" I hear her ridiculous heels clomp away and meander over to the set of drawers, open the top one. Inside is a plethora of fine shirts—silk, cotton, velvet—all of varying colors. The drawer below holds pants…and the shower connected to the room is awfully tempting…

Perhaps a half hour later, I feel almost better. My stomach is still in knots, my heart hurts, and my mind is full of faces I might never see again. But I'm clean, dressed in a teal, silk shirt and black slacks, the front of my hair back in its braid with the rest over my shoulders.

I sit at the table, staring at the food. I'm early; Oscar and Blye haven't arrived to eat, yet, and my stomach doesn't feel very accepting. I sigh, lean back in my chair and pull out my little fish, maneuver it around in my fingers.

"That's beautiful," a light tenor voice cuts in. Startled, my fingers falter and drop the fish. I watch it hit the floor with my heart in my throat, sigh when it remains intact. I reach down to pick it up, but a tan hand gets there first. My eyes follow as it rises from the floor, approaches a chiseled face framed by copper curls and marked by deep blue eyes. I know this man—there are few in District 4 who don't.

"Finnick Odaire," I murmur. His eyes flash up to meet my gaze. He smiles, and I gulp. He's as striking as they say.

"And you must be miss Silverside. Kuria, was it?" I nod slowly as he sits down in a chair across from me.

"Everyone calls me Tobi." He frowns slightly, glances back to the figurine in his hands.

"Odd nickname for a pretty young girl, don't you think?" he comments. I reach out my hand, palm up, for the figurine.

"It's short for Tobiou," I explain. He smiles knowingly.

"The old word for a flying fish, isn't it? And Kuria…clear winged." He holds up the figurine , eyebrows raised and smile broadening. "Appropriate." He places it delicately in my palm, and I drop it back into the pocket of my pants, safe.

"Thank you." I'm not really sure it's the appropriate response, but he nods before pointing toward my pocket.

"Clam's work, isn't it?" My eyebrows go up, surprised. He remembers Clam? I nod and his smile is back. He shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "Aw, he hasn't changed. Still making those things…"

"Oh, Finnick!" Blye's voice interjects. I turn in my chair, take in her absurd black and yellow outfit as she approaches. "I see you've met Kuria," she gestures to me and Finnick nods.

"Indeed I have," he says, winks at me. "The Lady Tobi is positively charming." Blye nods, pulls Oscar out from behind her voluminous skirts.

"This is your other tribute—Oscar Tigerfish." Oscar nods timidly, and Finnick reaches out to take the boy's hand in a firm shake.

"Tigerfish, huh? Good, strong name." Oscar offers the shadow of a smile, takes the seat next to me as Blye takes the one next to Finnick. I frown.

"Aren't we supposed to have two mentors?" I ask. A flicker of something dark, unreadable, passes over Finnick's features.

"Annie is…indisposed." He answers vaguely. Then I remember. Annie…victor of the 70th hunger games. The one who won because there was a flood…and then went insane. I cast Finnick a sad look, remember that supposedly he and Annie were in love. He meets my eyes, and I mouth an apology. I know it's not enough-I've heard the rumors, and he's had more pain than his beloved's state of mind. Still, he offers a brave smile and a shrug before the moment is broken by Blye digging into breakfast.

I turn to my plate, begin picking at the strange foods arranged on it. The look on Finnick's face has conveyed one thing most clearly: I haven't seen anything, yet.

**Yeah...like I said, short. Hopefully the next chapter will make up for it...a little. Anyway, as it says up top, I just edited this chapter. Let me know if there's anything I missed, or just things you think could/should be done other ways...or feel free to offer suggestions...or compliments? Haha-anything is fine. I just crave reviews, because I like to pretend that I'm really good at this stuff, and reviews make that a lot easier. ;P**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm baaa-aaack! Here's chapter five, and we finally made it to the capitol! Is your heart pounding? Are you nervous, scared, excited? If you're anything like Tobi, you're probably slightly numb from the neck up. Hopefully you can still read...**

**Also, if you're a returning reader, enjoy the edits! If you're new...well, it's better this way. Really. Not a whole lot changed, just a couple little hints and grammar/technical things. Anyway, it's all better now...unless you see more to fix?**

**Enjoy!**

The morning we pull into the capitol, all my fears return with a vengeance, and I spend my first waking moments choking on them. The time on the train has been like a dream—most of my time was occupied watching the country go by and talking to Finnick, sharing stories-apparently he used to work on the King Fisher's rival boat, the Siamese Betta. And, of course, the occasional discussion of survival tactics. He's in the middle of telling me about how to kill someone with a fishing hook when Blye bursts from her chair and points out the window.

"Oh, look! It's the capitol! Oh, isn't is just beautiful?" And it is. I hate that it is—I feel like it should be ugly, a great scar on the world. But there it towers, glimmering in the sun like wet fish scales. It's breathtaking. I run to the window, ignore Finnick's chuckle at my childish behavior, even ignore the cynic in my head that craves hatred.

"Oscar, come look!" I call to the boy. He approaches slowly, and I grab his hand, pull him up to stand next to me. After a moment, a smile lights his face. At least I'm not the only one. We pass through crowds of capitol dwellers as the train pulls in—each a new color and shape—and Oscar begins to wave, hesitantly. I follow his lead, and we can hear the cheers through the train walls as the thing slows to a stop.

Once off the train, Oscar and I are ushered toward one of the many tall buildings, pushed onto an elevator along with Blye and Finnick, and whisked up to the fourth floor.

"Each district gets their own floor," Blye explains cheerfully. "Here we are! Isn't it wonderful?" I'm starting to think she has an extremely limited vocabulary—she uses the same adjectives for everything.

The place is wonderful, however. It's been furnished, apparently, with district 4 in mind. The color scheme is silver and pearly white and a few different shades of blue. The walls dance with light as though reflected off water, and the chandelier is strung with pearls. The layout is designed a bit like a boat, as well, with the dining space sunken into the floor, window seats and cubbies built into the walls. Oscar and I are shown individually to our rooms—Oscar by Finnick, myself by Blye—which prove to be similarly themed. I nearly cry when I see my bed, built into the wall, and wonder if perhaps they bugged the Bobber, did this on purpose…

All four of us skip dinner—we're too tired. So tired that even my fear, which has been a constant pressure in the back of my mind for hours, quiets. I sleep soundly.

Blye wakes us early, takes us down the elevator and into what must be the basement of the building, where Oscar and I are taken separate ways, led down one of many sterile, white halls. Moments later, I find myself, alone, in a white room full of metal equipment, heart pounding, until the sliding of a door announces the addition of three more people. I stare at them.

There are two women—one with flaming red hair and yellow skin, and a very tall one with silver skin and various colored spikes all over her head. The third was a rather rotund man wearing blue velvet, skin the lightest of purples and hair just a shade darker. They stop perhaps three feet from me, and I imagine I look rather like a clownfish outside its anemone with a barracuda staring my down.

"Hello, dear," the tall silver woman says, voice silky. "You must be Kuria." I nod slowly.

"Call me Tobi."

"Well, Tobi," the man says rather jauntily, "we'll be your handlers from today until the games begin. It's our job to make you look beautiful!" He sings the last word with a flourish, and I nearly offer an amused, quiet smile. Nearly.

"I'm Percei," The silver one introduces herself calmly. "This is Nitya," she gestures to the red and yellow woman, who smiles broadly.

"And I'm Rendwick," the man finishes. The three of them bow to me rather awkwardly before attacking all at once. Before I know it, I'm stripped naked, covered with a paper gown and laid out on a silver table. I feel like I'm about to be gutted.

The next three hours are the worst of my life. I am picked at, slathered with a million kinds of goo, plucked, peeled and pulled at. By the end of it, my newly hairless skin smarts, I smell like a million chemicals, and my face feels like plastic, so my times has it been attacked with tweezers. I lay on the table as Percei, Nitya and Rendwick ooh and aah over my new capitol-level hygiene before exiting the room with me in tow. I'm led down the windowless halls again, deposited in yet another strange room. This one is dark grey, with lush red furniture scattered over the space. Unfortunately, there's still a sterile steel table against a far wall, and it's on this that I am abandoned as my three handlers twitter themselves right out of the room. After another few moments of staring at the ceiling, I hear the door slide open again, sit up on my table.

"Hello miss Silverside," says the new voice. It's thin and soft. "My name is Flux." A man sweeps into view as my eyes readjust. He's much more human looking than the others; tall and pale, with intricate black designs over his bald head and very dark eyeliner, clothed in simple black and white.

"Hello, Flux." My voice is soft, tired. "Call my Tobi." He nods with the lightest of smiles.

"Well, Tobi…how do you feel?" he asks. I shrug, stare at the ground.

"Fine…a bit tampered with." He chuckles, but the sound is oddly apologetic.

"Listen, I know this isn't a game for you," he says slowly. "I'm sorry you're here under these circumstances. But I plan to help you make the best of this that you can." He takes a step back, offers an elegant bow before adding a bright smile. "While you are here, you shall receive nothing but the best from one Flux Herriot. Now, tonight is the tribute parade," he moves on, pulls me to stand before him. "We need to come up with an outfit representative of your district…" he looks me over, clicks his tongue. "I'm sorry—could you take off the gown please, my dear? I need to get a proper look at you." For a moment, I am flustered. And then he offers a reassuring smile, and somehow I feel completely comfortable with him. I have never been a self-conscious person-I spent many a childhood afternoon naked in the bay with Hiram, Mag and Brook-and he somehow manages to make this feel…not awkward. Finally he claps his hands, smiles. "I think I've got an idea," he says happily. "I'll just need to run it by Oscar's people. Here—you can get dressed again. Go on back to your room—I'll call you back in a couple of hours, and then," he claps. "It's show time!"

As he promised, I only kill perhaps two and a half hours, during which Oscar and I watch the footage of the reaping. I can't watch my own—its too strange—but the others prove informative. My heart performs odd acrobatics watching districts 1-3. Careers…all powerhouses. And the boy from 2…something in his face sends chills down my spine. Him and the 11 boy, both. And then there are the ones I think maybe I'll outlast; the boy with the bum leg; the girl from 11. My heart twists when I think about it, but that's just how it is, right? And then we watch 12. I almost cry…and then I wonder, is that what it would have looked like if Brook had volunteered? For the first time, a truly sickening thought crosses my mind: if Brook had volunteered, we would both be here. We'd be expected to kill each other.

When Flux finally calls me back down, I am taken to the same room as before. At first, only Percei, Nitya and Rendwick are there. I am given a full-scale makeover, back in the simple, paper shift, before Flux walks in.

"You look beautiful, dear," he says. I blink rapidly.

"I can't feel my face," I exaggerate, monotone. He chuckles—the other three, still standing against the far wall, titter.

"Now…are you ready to see your dress?" he asks. I nod hesitantly, hoping he won't pull out some sort of all-revealing netting.

I am beyond pleasantly surprised. At first, I can't make heads or tails of the thing, but after a full hour of dressing and more makeup—on a full-body scale—I am allowed to look in the mirror. I gasp at the girl staring back at me. The dress does involve netting…but it's certainly nothing like what I was expecting. The base is a simply, light blue silk, strapless, twisted around the knees and flaring out along the floor, with sequins climbing like the scales on a mermaid's tail. Over my shoulders, and attached to the bodice of the dress, is basically a fishing net, fine and delicate, threaded with pearls. The sequins from the bottom of my dress make a reappearance across my shoulders, up one side of my neck and over the right side of my jaw, to reach the corner of my eye in a single-file line, almost like a tear. My hair is left loose and wavy down my back, with a few pearls threaded into it, and my makeup is simple—just enough darkening that my pale skin and hair, and light grey eyes, pop.

"Oh, Flux…it's wonderful," I whisper. I'm starting to sound like Blye. Flux grins.

"I'm glad you like it!"

"You look like a mermaid!" Nitya exclaims, claps her hands.

"Something straight out of a magical lagoon!" Percei agrees. Flux holds out his arm.

"Ready to meet the world?" he asks. I nod, determined. Here we are at step one of the games…and I am ready to meet it head on.

**So here we are, officially into the realm of the true hunger games. What do you think? Did the transition work? Is Tobi believable? Finnick is probably a little ooc...I apologize. I just don't know him super well..anyway, leave me some tips if you feel like it? I live on those things...seriously, and I need to buy groceries soon, and I'm all out of reviews...**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, everyone! I am thrilled to see that a couple of you have chosen to follow this story! It really does wonders for my abandonment issues (by which I mean my tendency to quit a story...) In fact, you could say that I'm still writing purely for those of you who continue to read (though isn't that always the way...?)**

**Anyway, here's the next little installment! I hope you're still enjoying the fic! Let me know? Cause even though follows are the best thing ever, reviews can be more helpful...**

**Officially edited.**

**Well, enjoy!**

"I told you heels were a bad idea," I whisper nervously to Flux as we enter the chariot loading dock. I am wobbly, to say the least, in the three-inch, clear, strappy heels he has forced me to wear. He wraps an arm firmly across my back, holds onto my arm with the other to balance me without calling attention to my general wobbliness. Anything to keep the other tributes from noticing…and they're all here. My eyes scan the crowd, latch on to the vibrantly dressed tributes from 1, the roman gladiator look of 2, the otherworldly techno suits of 3…the odd black suits for 12.

"The heels are necessary," Flux is whispering to me. "You're small—you don't want the other tributes to figure out exactly how small yet." I nod absently—my eyes have locked onto the boy from district 2, and my heart rate has tripled. He's giant, broad shouldered and covered in rippling muscles. I gulp—I don't want to run into him…ever, actually. Let alone on the arena. And yet. His eyes are blue...

"Take a breath, Tobi," a light voice advises from behind me. I turn, wobble for only a moment, and my eyes land on Oscar. I'm flabbergasted. Not only is this one of the first times he's ever actually spoken to me of his own accord, he looks utterly dashing. He's dressed in a teal half-toga, chest bare, netting much like my own around his shoulders, his coppery hair smoothed into waves around his face. On his head is a golden crown, and he holds a trident in one hand, face lit with a smile.

"Oscar, you look great," I tell him. He smiles, shuffles his sandals shyly.

"You think it'll help? You know…with the sponsors and stuff…" he asks. Flux grins, pats the boy on the shoulder.

"They'd be stupid not to sponsor you two," he promises. "You look like beings straight out of some magical tale."

The space explodes into a sudden clamor as suddenly everyone is ushered into their chariots. "Come on, Tobi, Oscar," Flux calls, leads us to our chariots. I hurry after him…only to slam into something hard.

I stumble backward, almost go all the way down thanks to my obnoxious heels, and blink rapidly before staring up at the face of the district 2 boy. He stares back down at me, face an odd mix of fury and amusement. Regardless, the end result is a scowl.

"Watch where you're going, 4," he growls. I sigh—I hate confrontations like this.

"Of course, your royal Careerness," I curtsy, voice tired. I meet his gaze unflinchingly, and he quirks an eyebrow. After a moment of silent staring, I affect a similar position. "Do you mind?" I ask. "You're sort of standing between me and my chariot." I point behind him. He merely smirks, and before I can react he's reached forward, grabbed my shoulders, and physically moved me to the right to clear his own path. I roll my eyes.

"Good luck with those land legs, 4," he calls over his shoulder, tone nasty. I freeze for a moment, Hiram's face flitting through my mind, and stare after 2. He only made the comment because district 4 is a fishing district…that's it. There's no way it's connected to Hiram at all. And I know that, but my heart still clenches painfully.

"Tobi! Get over here!" Blye calls from where she stands beside the chariot. I shuffle over as fast as I can in the heels, reach the chariot just in time, and Oscar reaches down to pull me up beside him.

"Alright, you two," Flux says, hands draped over the side of the chariot as he leans in. "Work the crowd." He winks at me before another, tanner hand reaches over to clasp mine firmly. I lock eyes with Finnick O'daire, his face more serious than I've ever seen it.

"This is the start," he says softly, looks between me and Oscar. "This is the first time they will see you, and it's imperative that you make a good impression." I nod, see Oscar do the same out of the corner of my eye.

Then we're off. The chariot jumps forward, and I clamp my hands onto the railings…only to discover there's no need. The chariot moves rather like a boat, and I find it's much easier to stand here than on solid ground with my heels.

The crowd goes wild at each new chariot, and I feel a soft smile decorate my face. Oscar looks positively ecstatic, waves at the crowd vigorously, much to their delight. I follow his lead, glancing around, catching a few tossed flowers, until my eyes lock on one of the large screens hanging out over the runway. At first, I can't see past my own face, glowing like a pearl framed with moonlight hair, eyes rimmed in black. I look like something…mystical, and Oscar looks like Neptune, himself, beside me. Then something behind my head appears on the screen, and within seconds I struggle to retain my smile.

District 12 has pulled out all the stops. All of them. They roll out in their tight black uniforms…and wings of fire sprout behind them. We are pursued by angels of destruction. From then to the end of the parade, and all the way through President Snow's annual speech, my eyes are glued to them along with everyone else's. They lock hands, wave to the crowd, intense and dangerous. My heart sinks. There go all my sponsors…

It turns out I'm not the only one upset by the display. As we all pull back into the chariot dock, I catch a glimpse of the careers as they dismount. Every single one of them is livid, but none so much as the boy from 2. His face is actually quite smooth, but his eyes burn as he glares toward the girl from 12. I flinch on her behalf before I'm distracted by a solid hug from Flux, who has come up behind me.

"Well done, both of you!" Finnick voices from behind him. I offer a weak smile.

"You think we made an impression?" Oscar asks eagerly. I cast my gaze toward the district 12 tributes.

"Not enough of one," I murmur, even as Finnick, Flux and Blye assure us otherwise. Finnick walks up to me, places his hands on my shoulders.

"Now, you listen here, Tobi Silverside," he says. "don't pay any attention to the other tributes for right now—you and Oscar were amazing tonight, and tomorrow we start your training. You need to focus, not be distracted by what you think the sponsors are thinking." I nod absently, and we head off toward the elevator. Unfortunately, my distractions are far from over. As we approach, another group appears near the elevator, as well. My heart sinks—it's district 2.

"Flux," one of their handlers greets with a nod. Flux offers a wane smile that leads me to wonder how many dead tributes lie in the rift between the two crew members.

"Neon." From there we lapse into silence. Oscar looks pointedly at the floor, while I recline against the wall of the elevator, attempting to look coolly casual. The girl from 2 smirks; there's something mean in her face. I imagine she will quite enjoy her killings during the games. The boy, on the other hand, remains still, expressionless. Every once in a while, we share a glance, and a smirk almost reaches his eyes before it disappears. The elevator rise lasts an eternity. The boy makes a point to knock my shoulder as he sweeps out of the elevator, and I can't hold up against his superior weight. I stumble, and Finnick rights me with a fierce glare at the boy. He responds with one last smirk over his shoulder before the doors close, and we're spirited up to the fourth floor.

Dinner is…interesting. The food is heavy, rich, and I can't stomach very much of it, though I try my best. There's a bizarre soup, and I can taste a bit of clam somewhere in it, so I mostly eat that. The other dishes are too bright…too covered in sauce for me to brave.

"Well, you had all better get some sleep," Blye advises as we finish. I stare at my almost full plate with a sigh. I miss the salt and oil of seafood…

"Tomorrow's a big day," Finnick agrees. "You both head down to the training box tomorrow. Now," he leans forward, gaze serious. "Don't go for the weapon you're most confident in. Find something you're decent with, and practice at that. Spend most of your time at the survival stations. Don't show anyone everything you can do." I nod, but my heart quails. Confident? With a weapon? I share a glance with Oscar, and it appears his thoughts are similar to my own. Neither of us have any experience with weapons.

Tomorrow will be an interesting day.

**Sorry-a little bit of a short chapter, and it didn't really tell you much of anything you didn't know. But we're moving closer to the actual games, yes? And Tobi has already had some interesting run-ins with Cato...also, I will warn you in advance, there will be some interesting twists coming up regarding Tobi's reactions to the games. So yeah-be prepared, yo. Haha. And for returners, let me know if you approve of my little edits, if you catch them. Mostly they're little one-liners; just touch-ups, really.**

**TTFN!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Alright, movin' right along to the next chapter! The aforementioned twists don't happen here, yet. But there's a lovely little patch or two of banter, if I say so myself dusting off shoulders.**

**Also, this has officially been edited and bettered! Hurrah! Nothing significant, just some touch ups. And thank you to the mysterious, anonymous reviewer! I can't respond to you, but I just want to say thank you SOOO much. The first review is always particularly special! sniffles I feel like my life has meaning now, guys...**

**Anyway, I hope I'm not uploading too fast for you...if there is such a thing. I just tend to write in big sits (that's what I call them, I guess...?) you know, where you just sit and write for a good hour, and by the end of it you've got a couple chapters worth of material. So I split it up, and that's why you guys end up with a couple updates in a day, and then none for a while. Sorry-if the pattern annoys you, let me know!**

**But I'm sure you couldn't care less about my writing habits...On to the show then, ladies and gentlemen!**

Blye wakes us early the next morning—earlier than necessary. _I shouldn't be surprised that she's an early riser, _I think begrudgingly as I roll out of bed. My whole body tingles from two days of being poked and prodded, walking around in heels…covered in sequins. And my chest feels heavy, as usual. I stumble to the bathroom, take a hot shower. When I get out, I spend a solid minute just staring into the mirror.

My face has grown even paler—it lost its sun, even though I've only been off the boat a couple days. My shower has left my normally white-blond hair a dark mercury, somewhere between solid and liquid as it clings to my neck, flows over my shoulders. My eyes are tired…but the grey is still bright. I lock onto them, as though I can see the ocean in my own irises. _I can do this,_ I think. _I can take off..._I amble out of the bathroom, find clothes laid out on my bed. Flux must have put them there, though I couldn't say when. I feel the material, smile. It's highly processed polyester—specifically designed to mold to its wearer and hold up against wear and tear. It's in the standard design that all the tributes wear for training, highlighted with teal instead of red. I slip it on quickly, throw on the provided jacket and walk over to my desk where my little figurine sits. I drop it into my jacket pocket.

The training box is like something out of a different world. The ceiling is characterized by a net that stretches just under it, and the floor is covered by matt pads. There is a station for everything—swordplay, plant identification, knots, knife throwing, climbing. Everything. So many that I can't fathom which to approach first.

I continue to stare about as the training master gives an introductory speech, rattling off which percentage of us will die from which natural cause and detailing how we shouldn't overlook the survival skills. When she finishes, most of the tributes scatter, heading instantly for pre-decided stations. Even Oscar scurries off, heads straight for the station on setting traps. Blye told us this morning that we should stick together—make the others think we're staying in an alliance for a while—so I cast one glance around at the other stations before following my fellow tribute.

We don't stay at the station very long before I discover that traps are, essentially, the same as dealing with the rigging on the boat, just with wires. I master most of them fairly quickly, then turn to help Oscar with them. His fingers are quick, but he hasn't spent time on a vessel like I have, so it takes him a while to pick up the technique.

When we both feel comfortable enough with the traps, we head to the next station—we might as well just do everything in a circuit. I smile, stare up at the climbing wall. I like climbing. For my first year on the King Fisher, I was little more than a galley apprentice; I got assigned a lot of deck duty, and most of my time was spent clambering around in the rigging. The rock wall is definitely different, however—it's harder to get a solid foothold. My feet slip off the little rocks more than once, leaving me to dangle by my fingertips before dropping back down to the ground. With a self-irritated sigh, I cast a glare at the wall and move on to rope climbing instead.

I'm halfway through one of the nets when suddenly the whole thing tips upside down. With a muffled grunt of effort, I manage to hook my leg through a gap, save myself from falling all the way off the net. I'm left dangling by one foot for a moment, thankful that my ankle holds up, before I can swing my upper body forward to grip the rope, effectively re-secured. I look up the line to the cause of the problem. It's the boy from 12—I think his name is Peeta. He's somehow managed to maneuver his weight far to one side, flipping the net; and he isn't doing a very good job of holding on.

"Loop your foot!" I yell to him. He throws me a confused glance. I release one of my hands from the rope, point to my foot and gesture to him. He seems to get it—tries to copy my position. I grit my teeth. Even though I shouldn't care, I don't really want to see him fall off. Besides, I would hate to see the smirk on Two's face. Finally he succeeds, and I grin. "Now move to the other side—it'll flip the net back over," I call up. He tries…the wrong way: by taking his foot out of the loop. I sigh, unsurprised, as he falls the few feet onto the padded flooring. The room resounds with snickers. I unhook my leg and flip the net back over before dropping down to hang from my hands, letting go and landing squarely beside Peeta. I hold down a hand to help him up, but he doesn't notice; the girl has come up beside him.

"Throw that metal thing over there," she whispers. Apparently I am invisible. Peeta shakes his head, sits up.

"No, Katniss…Haymitch said not to show our skills—"

"I don't care what Haymitch said," Katniss interrupts. "Those guys are looking at you like you're a meal. Throw it." She stands up and walks away. Looks like Oscar and I aren't the only ones with alliance plans. Peeta and I turn to where she gestured, and find a crew of the careers snickering at us. I shake my head, turn and walk straight towards them, aiming for the station behind them, just to prove they don't scare me. Unfortunately it turns out that the station I'm heading for is spear-throwing. I deflate internally; spears are a lot like harpoons, just without the hooks at the end. I've never been good with those. For someone known to be good with fishing and boating, I'm notoriously bad at throwing the long projectiles. So much for showing off. _Well, too late to stop now..._

As I pass, a large hand flashes out to grip my shoulder. I close my eyes for a moment with an exasperated sigh; I know who it is even before I look up into his face.

"Two," I greet with a cold nod. He smirks at me, nods to Peeta, who has ambled over to the giant, metal weights in the middle of the room.

"Your new ally?" he asks mockingly. I casually pluck his hand from my shoulder, hold it out like a rotten fish. As I drop it, Peeta picks up one of the weights. Cato and his cronies chuckle, I watch in silence as Peeta, by some miracle, manages to hurl the thing all the way across the room, where it crashes into the case of spears. _Great…I was just about to go over there, you oaf…_I think, but I smirk at Cato.

"If he were, you'd be in some trouble wouldn't you?" I retort. He offers a scowl before the cocky grin is back, one eyebrow quirked.

"Well, actually I was hoping you would provide a bit of extra baggage," he snarks. I laugh.

"Right, well…tell me how that works out for you." I saunter as smoothly as I can over to the spears, pick one up off the floor and heft it in my hand. I stare at the dummy about ten feet in front of me. I know I'm supposed to throw the thing, but there's no way I'll be able to clear the difference, and I can feel the careers staring right between my shoulder blades. This is one of many make-it or break-it moments. So I take a deep breath, heft the spear, and run over to the sword dummies. I twirl the spear—treating it more like a staff with a blade at the end. By the time I'm finished, three of the five dummies are decapitated, the other two either missing limbs or stabbed through the abdomen. I heft the spear again, straightening. _Not bad for flailing around…_

"Interesting approach," Cato's voice drawls from behind me, accompanied by a slow, mocking clap. "But I don't think that's what you're supposed to do with it." I turn, spin the spear for show and thank my lucky stars when I manage not to drop it before pointing it casually toward his throat. Showing off is a tricky business…especially when you're not as good as you're pretending you are.

"I don't think it'll matter in the arena," I retort. "Five people are dead—it doesn't really matter what technique I used to kill them." I drop the spear, stalk past him. I hear him chuckle as I pass.

A while later, the bell rings for lunch, and we all file out of the training room. I find Oscar—over the course of the session, he's flitted around most of the survival stations—fire, shelter, plants, traps, knots. Even camouflage, though he says he's no good at it. After the spear station, I managed to get around to the plants, swordplay and fire. It turns out that the legends are true: district 4 is bad with fire. I guess it's because we come from water.

The careers all circle around a long table, joking and laughing and teasing one another as though we aren't training for our lives. I watch them with interest as Oscar and I pick a corner table. Most of them seem…oddly detached. I pick at my food with a grimace. No wonder they aren't afraid—they're in denial. They tell themselves it's really just a game.

After lunch, it's on to the private training sessions. Each district has a time slot, when their mentors can come in and help them train alone with the equipment. Ours is several hours after lunch. Until then, we are free to do as we please, as long as we stay in the building. It's not long before I find myself on the roof.

Unfortunately, I'm far from the only person with the idea. Already sitting with her legs over the edge, I find Katniss Everdeen—the girl on fire. I sigh. I had really hoped to be the only one up here. After a moment of deliberation, during which I almost turn and leave, I finally decide I might as well make the best of it.

Without a word, I walk to the other side of the rooftop, take a seat. She spares me a glance, and I toss her a nod before we return to ignoring each other and I look out over the city. It glows, like a bioluminescent fish flopping around on the shore, and I feel oddly unsettled. _I'm not sure how much I like flying, Grandma,_ I think, allow the hours to drift by.

"I think you're almost up, 4," a cold voice says from the doorway out onto the rooftop. My heart sinks, and without a moment of hesitation Katniss stands, turns and walks away. I find myself wishing I had decided not to stay in the first place.

"Must you invade the rooftop?" I ask tiredly, not bothering to move. Cato saunters forward; I can hear his boot heels clicking against the metal surface. He wouldn't push me off the roof, would he? Surely not…I mean, there's the safety shield, anyway. And even if there weren't, why deprive himself of a nice, messy kill in the arena?

"It's not your rooftop," he answers simply, leans against the rail beside me.

"No," I agree. "I suppose it isn't…nothing really belongs to us anymore, does it?" I'm really only talking to myself as I pull the little fish figurine out of my pocket and hold it in my palm. I hear Cato laugh—it's a rough sound, unexpectedly bitter.

"Just our deaths," he says morbidly. I cast him a frown, and he points to my little fish. "What's that?"

"Just something from my district…" I curl my fist back around it, tuck it into my pocket. He nods.

"Well…I meant it when I said you're up," he says gruffly. I look up at him in surprise. Is that…discomfort in his voice? I wouldn't have pegged him as someone awkward. "You should probably go on down there, or you'll be even more likely to die early." I sigh, stand slowly.

"Better watch it, two," I say as I pass him. "Depending on how things go, I might outlive you, yet." It's an empty threat, we both know it. If Cato wants to kill me, there's little I can do to prevent him from doing so. Yet as I step into the elevator and the doors close, I hear him practically guffaw, and can't help but crack a smirk, as well.

**See? Lovely bit of banter, there. And what have we learned from this? Cato is actually human! Yay! Alright, that's that I suppose. Although, I can't really peace out without the expected spiel: Reviews are much beloved to me (and to all) and I will love you forever if you present them to me!**

**Haha-TTFN, that's all for now, folks.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay guys, here's the next installment! Yay! Also, I'm finally home for break, so I might be able to update more often...or at least a bunch all at once or something...look forward to it! Haha...**

**Also, a resounding "I LOVE YOU!" to the three people who reviewed me! Only one of you is a registered user (ms. _Safarilover1_) and the other two are unidentified guests, but you are all wonderful, and I hugely appreciate the support.**

**(P.S. this has now been edited...and I fixed a couple of the things people have pointed out that didn't make sense. Particularly the thing with the harpoon, throwing things and stuff. Tell me if it still doesn't make sense!)**

**Anyway, be prepared for an interesting little hiccup in this one...something which I may expand upon, depending on people's reactions...and on to the show! **

When I get back to the training center Finnick is already waiting for me, dressed in an exercise suit much like mine. I glance around—we're alone; the doors are closed, and the observational balcony is empty of its usual ogling capitol gamemakers. Honestly I was expecting them to be here, pressing their noses against the glass and scribbling down how likely it is that I will die first. Oh well-no loss.

"Where's Oscar?" I ask, coming to stand directly in front of Finnick. "I thought we were supposed to train together—you know, stay a pair and whatnot." He shrugs.

"Well, as long as you stay together in public, it doesn't matter how you train with me. We want the other tributes and the gamemakers to think you're a team; that doesn't mean you necessarily have to be one for real." I nod slowly, readjust my white-blond ponytail.

"So Oscar wants to train separately," I affirm. He nods. I can't say I'm all that surprised…or disappointed. It's probably easier for both of us to train separately. After all, only one of us can win.

"Right, then. What are your skills?" Finnick says with a sudden clap of his hands. I shrug.

"Well…I'm good with knots…ropes in general, really. I'm a pretty good climber…semi-decent with plants. Ummm…I'm fast, I guess? When I don't trip. Honestly, I'm much better at swimming. Oh, and I know some hand to hand from wrestling with the guys on deck-and when I say 'some,' I mean that I can hold my own for maybe 2 minutes. Tops." He chuckles, but it doesn't mask his displeasure as he rubs his hand along the back of his neck and blows out a puff of air.

"Well, you could be a lot worse off," he says to start. "But we've got a lot to work on, too. You sound pretty set on traps and evasion, which is great, but we need to get you up to par on survival skills, and mostly combat. You won't be able to climb up out of reach and just wait there—the gamemakers will never let you."

"I'm not very good with weapons," I confess. "I was okay with a spear earlier, because I thought of it as more of a staff with a blade and didn't throw it…" Finnick frowns, puts his fingers against his chin, deep in thought.

"You didn't think of it like a harpoon?" He sounds a little surprised, and why shouldn't he? I'm from District Four-spears, tridents and harpoons should be strengths of mine. I shrug.

"I'm really bad with harpoons." He grunts noncommittally, sinks into thought again.

"Really, you should be good at quite a few things—especially throwing. It doesn't make sense for that to be a weakness. I mean, you fish, right? You're good at casting…hmmm…" suddenly he gets an excited look on his face, struts to the stand of knives and picks out a small one. "Here, throw this." He points to a target. I stare at him.

"How? I just told you I'm bad at throwing..." He takes my hand, positions the knife in my clumsy fingers.

"Think of it like casting a line—flick your wrist and use the same concept of aim. This is small, so you should be able to throw it far enough." I nod slowly, feel the weight of the knife in my fingers. Close my eyes, take a breath, focus on the target. Tunnel vision…

When I throw, I think of casting a line, just as Finnick said, and the blade speeds through the air. I miss the target—the blades lands half an inch outside the figure's outline—but the blade sticks deep in the board. Honestly, it's more than I expected; I thought for sure that the knife would strike the board handle-first. Finnick looks pleased.

"That's great for a first throw, Tobi! We'll get this down…and then I think we should work on constructing weapons."

"What do you mean?" I frown. Constructing them? I have no idea how to even go about something like that. He levels me with a stare.

"Well, you know how to make fishing hooks don't you?" he asks. I nod slowly, starting to get it. "There will be wire and rope—maybe even some twine. Knives…Arrows…You should be able to use quite a few things, once you get your hands on them." I nod, and we get to work.

The first half of the hour is spent teaching me how to use weapons that might be available. I work on knife throwing the most, until I can at least hit the figure somewhere vital 1 out of every five throws. Then we move to spears, and interestingly, Finnick has me continue with my own odd methods, using the bladed stick as more of a sword than a projectile. We pretty much leave actual swords alone—they're all too heavy for me. The bow and arrows, as well, as they would take longer to master than we have time for.

"Alright….go!" I take off. It's the half hour mark, and Finnick has me running a timed mile. I said I was pretty fast—now's the time to prove it. I remember as a child I used to swim…all the time. Constantly. From morning till evening I would play in the bay; Grandma used to say I was more fish than human. I could hold my breath forever. Naturally, all that left my lungs in great shape, which makes running a lot easier. I pump my legs, arms and shoulders slack, ankles strong. Breathe in, out, in out…nose, mouth. I create a rhythm with the pounding of my feet, and before I know it, I'm speeding back in to Finnick. He clicks the timer and gives me an appreciative glance. "That was a 4.5 minute mile, little miss," he says breathlessly. I'm breathing hard, but I grin at him. Strands of mercury hair are slicked to the side of my neck with sweat; I couldn't keep up a pace like that for very long, but it's good to know I can do it when I have to.

The rest of the training we spend sitting cross-legged in the middle of the facility, surrounded by bits and pieces from all the other stations. We've tied some twine from the knots onto the handle of one of the knives—it's a good way of creating a sort of boomerang knife. We've also fashioned some interested hooks out of the wire and attached twine to those, as well. If these get into someone…well, they won't be coming back out again. When our time is finally up, we have created an entire new arsenal of things that will be more readily available than the more basic weapons.

"Well, I suppose that's it for today," Finnick says, stands and brushes off his hands. He reaches down to help me up, but I stand on my own, offer him a smirk. "Don't forget the interview is tonight." He reminds me as I head toward the door.

The interview.

I completely forgot.

I spin around, a look of alarm on my face. He laughs, waves a hand at me. "Don't worry, Tobi. Flux will go over it with you—you'll be fine." I throw him a doubtful glance, but don't argue. I pass Oscar on the way out, and he gives me an odd look, gestures to the remaining pile of weapons on the floor as Finnick begins putting them away.

"What on earth have you been up to?" he asks, face incredulous. I smile softly and shrug.

"Tinkering," I answer mysteriously before leaving the arena. As I walk through the stark halls to the elevator, I idly wonder what time it is, glance around the windowless walls. No sooner does the question cross my mind, however, than I feel overwhelmingly claustrophobic.

I lean heavily on one of the suffocating, white walls, hand to my chest. My heartbeat skyrockets beneath my fingertips, and suddenly my vision is sporadic. I'm hyperventilating, _there's no air…_my eyes flit in spasms from white square to white square, searching for anything, _something not white…_and suddenly I'm filed with the all-consuming fear of dying in whiteness…_whiteness is blinding…burns my eyes, my head…_

I clap my hands to the sides of my head, sink to the floor and lean down with my head between my knees. I focus on my breathing, force it to become slow…even…

I sink into a meditative void. The ocean floats in my mind. Breathe in, breathe out. I hear the waves slap on the sides of a boat—me—feel the subtle rocking motion. In…out…hear a seagull cry miles away, the whoosh of wind, smell the salt and the warm sun. Breathe…breathe…

"What's up with you?" The scathing voice cuts through my illusion and my eyes snap open. I'm still on the floor, hands tangled in my hair, head between my knees. I realize something is missing: it's the motion. I've been rocking. I didn't even notice until I stopped…

In front of me is a pair of shoes. Thick, black leather combats, attached to cargo-clad shins and dark canvas knees. It takes a moment for me to register the voice, brain on replay as my gray eyes remain wide and staring through a thin, white-blond curtain. I almost laugh—I must look completely insane…

Then the voice clicks, and my face morphs into a scowl. My eyes have anchored onto the shoes—they're not white. My breathing is back to normal; without shifting my gaze, I straighten my shirt, sit up, and push my hair back from my face. Once I'm sure I can, I push myself to my feet, arms crossed , to regard my…savior? Accoster? Enemy.

"Cato," I whisper. He smirks at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Having some problems, four?" he sneers. I simply blink at him.

"None at all," I respond breezily. I meet his gaze, my own icy as the mid-winter sea. His eyes still spark with malicious amusement as he saunters forward. I realize with dismay that I'm trapped with a wall at my back. He leans forward and down to my level, nose a mere few inches from my face.

"I wonder how long that will last…" he muses. My heart jumps. Was that a threat? Of course it was…An image of Cato running toward me, wielding a sword already slimy and glistening red flashes. My heartrate is accelerated, again, but I manage to smile coolly, tilt my head up so I can peer down my nose at him, despite his superior height (a trick I learned from having a beast of a younger brother.) I take a step forward, almost forcing him back. My nose is practically stabbing him in the chin.

"Do you know what it's like to work on the sea, two?" I ask. His expression doesn't change, still infuriatingly amused and endlessly contemptible.

"I'm not pond scum from your district, four," he sneers. I smile; it's a tiny gesture, but I know he catches it, just like he notices the new wildness dawning in my gaze. I can feel it, too, like ice in my bloodstream.

"On the sea you can never hesitate," I tell him, take another step forward. He doesn't budge—this is a pure battle of wills. "But do you know what's even worse than hesitation? Arrogance." I'm still whispering, and my words float through the stark halls like a ghost, mournfully eerie. "The moment you think you know the sea—the second you think you can _control_ her or _beat her down_, you're finished." I poke him in the chest and push. It doesn't do much—I'm not strong enough—but his sneer has faded a bit. "She'll chew you up and spit you out faster than you can say 'sushi'." I offer one last, quietly crazed smile before backing up, walking to the elevator and putting a foot inside when it finally opens. Before stepping fully in, I glance over my shoulder. "By the way, sorry about the lift; but you know what they say: Ladies first." I step the rest of the way in. Before the doors close al the way, though, Cato's hands reach forward, quick as lightning, to hold them open. He looks in at me, face oddly unreadable. He's smiling, but it's cold…frightening.

"You're an interesting one, four," he says haughtily. "It will be _very_ amusing to watch your…_performance_ in the arena." He withdraws, the doors glide closed. "See you for training!" he calls, just before they bang together and the great machine begins pulling me to the fourth floor.

**So yeah...that hiccup with the panic attack. You like, or no? I mean, I thought it was sort of an interesting part of Tobi's character-honestly, I wasn't expecting that at all, but I guess she's not coping as well as I thought...**

**Anyway, if you hate it, love it, don't care...let me know! Much love,**

**~S.S.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, here's chapter nine for all you lovely people who keep reading my work! You probably know how much it means, but seriously: checking my traffic stats always makes my day because of you guys. And of course, the five reviews I've received have been like early Christmas. Unfortunately, three of you are "guests" so I can't respond to you through PMs, but honestly: it makes me unbelievably happy to know that you cared enough to take time to send me your thoughts.**

**About this installment: this one's a bit weird, I'll just tell you now. Basically, Tobi is having a bit of a crisis, though she just calls it her metamorphosis...**

**Lastly, to those of you who pointed out things in earlier chapters that could be changed, I will be doing that right after this posts, so feel free to go back and take a look if you feel like it!**

**Now then...on to what you really want! ;)**

As the elevator steadily climbs, I replay the last couple hours in my head, particularly the last conversation. A whirlpool forms, complete with little moments that wear away at me like bottom feeders. I am changing…some part of my core, a fundamental piece of what it means to be Tobi, is slowly morphing into something unrecognizable: the ice in my gaze, the bite in my words; the wild madness that seems to wait in the back of my mind, circling like a shark around a shipwreck. I wonder when it started happening. Was it when I stepped into the training room? When I was stripped, remolded, altered to a level I foolishly thought only skin-deep? Was it all the way back, in the beginning, when my name hovered on the lips of Blye Cobalt? Or just a few moments ago, when I could practically taste my own death on my tongue, see it in the blank walls of my decorated cage?

The elevator grinds to a halt alongside the torrent of thoughts and memories. One word seems stuck on replay, Cato's voice simply echoing louder and softer and louder again: Performance. That's right—everything is a performance. My death, along with everyone else's. Something in me seems to fall into place, as though my metamorphosis is complete. _click_. The elevator doors open and I step off, walk into the sitting room where Flux and Blye recline casually on the couch, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil that has formed a small, invisible ring about my person. I wonder idly if I look different on the outside; if Grandma and Brook would recognize me. I've always been aloof, withdrawn, calm but friendly. Never the ice that I feel now, or the wildness.

"Ah—Tobi, my dear!" Flux greets cheerily as I approach the couch and gingerly take a seat. His deep, mellow voice snaps me out of my thoughts, returns a little of the normal color to my suddenly stark mind.

"Hello," I nod with a soft smile.

"Your interviews are tonight!" Blye exclaims, as excited and blunt as ever. Flux sighs in her general direction and I smile wider.

"Indeed," he grumbles, turns back to me. "Anyway, dear, we have a couple of hours before we're expected to get you ready. Why don't we go over your strategy some?" For a moment I stare at him, blank. Then years of watching the games floats back into my head. Right. The tried and true way of using these interviews is to find an approach and stick to it. Overplay one angle of yourself—something that will make sponsors want to keep you around. We're all characters in a drama to them; the goal is to be everyone's favorite character. _Performance, indeed…_I think bitterly, feeling slightly thawed, as though my old self is clawing its way out of the ice.

"That would probably be a good idea," I agree nervously. Flux hears the worry in my voice, pats my hand lightly.

"Any ideas, Tobi?" Blye asks, chipper and oblivious. I shrug.

"Not really…I don't really know my own angles, let alone which one the sponsors would like…" I glance up to meet Flux's gaze. He is leaning away from me, scanning me with a critical eye. I've seen him make this face before, when he's coming up with ideas for a costume.

"You know, I think we can use something a little unexpected," he muses. I frown, and he continues thoughtfully. "You're small, pale, white-haired, dainty looking." I try not to scoff—I've worked at staying _not_ dainty for years. It's not a compliment for a sailor.

"I wouldn't call myself a dainty person." My voice only comes off slightly insulted. Flux grins.

"Yes, that's exactly it. You don't match your own image, Tobi. You look like a doll, a ghost doll. And at first, you seem rather like one," he tosses me a look at my muffled protest. "The first time I met you, I thought you seemed made of porcelain: you just sat there, stared at me with those great ocean eyes of yours. But Tobi," he leans forward, clasps my hand, and the designs on his head catch in the light. "You're wild, icy, bitter…fierce. Even when you're still as glass, your eyes hold all the unpredictable fury of the open sea." I smile, fighting the blush that rises to my cheeks. It's the most flattering description of myself I've ever heard. Then Cato's voice pops into my head again, _performance_, and I wonder how much of this is genuine.

"Where are you going with this, Flux?" Blye chirps from her corner of the couch. She's carefully examining her neon yellow nails, bored. She has one of the worst cases of attention deficit disorder I've ever seen.

"I think we need to play up the wildness, Tobi," Flux addresses me as though Blye never spoke, and she looks mildly affronted. Nevertheless, she scoots closer, interested in spite of herself. "You can be charming, you can be quiet, but always you must be fierce." I nod slowly. I can't say that I fully comprehend what he's asking me to do…yet at the same time, I understand perfectly. It's as though he's perfectly grasped this new change that has come over me. Or perhaps I was wild all along, and I just didn't notice.

We spend a bit longer going over my approach for the interview, pinpointing things about my life that I should highlight if given the chance, finding things I should downplay. Flux tells me a number of times to trust Flickerman. MC of the Hunger Games for quite a few years in a row, Caesar Flickerman is known as a brilliant host. He always manages to up a tribute's natural appeal. I trust him about as far as I can throw him—he's a capitol maggot like the rest of them, turning our deaths into profit—but at least he seems to try to make the games as humane as possible, tries to give all of us the best chances possible. I wonder if he really cares, or if it's all in the interest of creating the best show.

When Oscar and Finnick return from their training session, Flux and I go our separate ways, leave Oscar with Blye, Finnick and his personal designer to go over interview plans. I return to my little room, collapse on my bed and stare at the ceiling. _Fierce, huh…_It's not a word I would previously have used to describe myself. Yet, for the coming events, it will certainly be a good one to embody. I smile broadly, an eel's grin, at the ceiling. For the second or third time today, I must look crazy. I can be fierce.

"Tobi?" Oscar calls from my doorway. I can't tell how long it's been, but my whirlpool of thought has formed again...and it's put me in a mood. I fight not to scowl—I don't particularly feel like interacting with him. _But in a way, he's here because of me._ The thought hits me like a rock, but of course it's true. If Brook had volunteered, this little boy would have been spared this horror. But for how long? He'd still have five years of reapings. _And after all, _I think, watching as he hovers awkwardly in the doorway, _better to kill him than my own brother._

"What's up, Oscar?" I ask, voice slightly crisp. Might as well start breaking it off now, whether or not he flinches pitifully into the doorway. I sniff pointedly, try not to care.

"Finnick thinks we should head down, now. You know, to give Flux and Sabille enough time…" he trails off, looks nervous. Like I might bite him. I mentally run over my appearance. I haven't fixed my hair, which is still tangled from my earlier…fit; my eyes are as cold and hard as I can make them; I'm still smiling a little bit, but it probably comes off a bit evil. _Well, I've done this much._

"Oh, does he," I murmur, stand smoothly and glide toward Oscar. Even though he's young, he's about my height. It's easy to lock his gaze, lean forward to rest my forearm on the door frame. He leans away, averts his gaze, and I chuckle softly. _Fierce…I can do fierce. _

"Y-yes. You know, the costumes could take some time, and we want to have plenty of time so we make a good impression and everything." My heart clenches. He's just so young, clearly miserable. I can see it in his azure gaze, anchored desperately on the floorboards: he knows he's going to die. Before I realize it, a touch of sympathy has leaked into my face, bled into my voice.

"A good impression, hm? Yes, you'll definitely need that, though I wonder how far it will carry." With that, I brush past him, leave him to stand frozen in the doorway. I can already imagine what's going through his mind: all our previous interactions, back when I still tried to be nice to him, help him out. He's wondering if that was fake, or what changed. He's wondering if maybe I'll be the one to kill him in the arena. He's thinking about his family back home, coming to the realization that he'll never see them again. He's figuring it out: everything is a performance, except the dying part. That is as real as it gets.

I almost collapse halfway toward the living room; crumble against the wall and cry. I hate this, all of it. I hate having to act that way to a little boy who's going to die…and I hate thinking that I might have to kill him. But I don't collapse, and I don't crumble and I don't cry. No more of that, not until I've won and I'm home. At least, that's what I tell myself: if I can just stay strong, _fierce…perform! _I can get home. Even though by the time I get there, I might be broken; even though I will be a ghost of my former self, covered in the blood of 23 other children.

**See what I mean? She's definitely having some issues...I don't really know what to do with her, so I'll just let her do her thing. I mean really, I'm just the writer-I don't actually get any say over these things. Haha. Alrighty then, let me know what you think! Are the changes too abrupt? Confusing? The best thing since Crime and Punishment? Oh wait...that stuff's super depressing...**

**Well then, Happy Thanksgiving to all! See you again soon.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Made it to chapter ten! BAM! Haha-and on the same day as chapter nine, too...proudly puffs out chest. Yeah, I know I'm awesome. You can say it-I'll accept your compliments if they come with reviews! Haha. You're only allowed to tell me what sucks if you also compliment me...wait, I don't think that's how it works...**

**So, now that you've been privy to my odd internal dialogues, yet again, quick note: this chapter's a little short...and a bit insubstantial, if you know what I mean. It's mostly a transition, because I didn't want to roll straight into the parade. After all, detailing the outfits is so much fun! Haha...and of course, Tobi's dark mood is persisting. Hopefully she'll snap out of it a little when she sees Cato at the parade. Fingers crossed...**

**Anyway, on to the tenth chap-I-versity of the story! (I don't think I've ever made it ten chapters in before...)**

The elevator ride down to the studio is long and silent. Oscar throws me fearful glances from where he stands with Blye. I want to offer him a reassuring smile—something to mute my cruel words moments before. I want to tell him it's all okay, he's going to be fine, I'm fine…everything's fine. But I don't—I can't. No smiles, no comfort. Because when we hit that arena, I'm not his friend, anymore. I'm his enemy—and I'm going to kill him. No point in telling myself some other tribute will do it for me.

Flux is waiting for me outside the elevator when I step out. The black markings across his head have been changed to dark purple, and his eyes are a vibrant green today, giving his pale skin an odd glow. He smiles at me, and for a moment my resolve falters. I pause mid-step, unable to return the smile.

There's a heaviness as Finnick lays a hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see that he's not smiling, either. There's a softness in his gaze, akin to understanding. He must have caught something in my face—my thoughts have probably been flickering across my features since we left the room. No wonder Blye was shooting me looks alternating between sympathy and disgust.

"It's okay, Tobi," Finnick murmurs. "I remember what it's like." He leans closer, so Oscar doesn't hear him. "You do what you have to do." I blink. He's giving me permission. At first, it sweeps over me like a warm wave. He knows—he gets it. It's me or them, and I have to live…right? But then the wave is gone, and the pit of my stomach swirls with something between physical pain and intense despondence. _Don't tell me it's okay,_ I think desperately as Flux gently takes my hand, leads me away. _Tell me it's terrible, that I'm a bad person…help me reign this in!_ I want to cry, but I already decided not to indulge in any of that. It's a weakness I can't afford. _Just perform…_

"Well, my dear," Flux begins once we're in his bizarre, grey and red studio. I take a seat on one of the red cushioned chairs, spine straight and face carefully blank, lest any more of my internal dialogue should leak out across it. "Are you ready to see your dress?" He asks, subdued excitement the same as ever. I'm grateful; he represents a constancy that is sorely lacking in y world. I watch him take a seat on the couch across from me, notice how carefully he seems to sculpt his expressions, and suddenly I wonder how many tributes he's sent off to the battlefield to die. How many children has he smiled at, pretending they'll make it out, just to watch them slaughtered? And there it is again: _performing_. I know that's what he's doing—it's the only way to survive his job, I suppose. Yet even as I watch his face, catch the small flickers of ominous doubt, I allow myself to believe the act. That he really believes in me, in the possibility that I might survive. And when I next meet his gaze, nod to see the dress, I can almost see hope in his eyes.

"Do your worst," I tell him tiredly. He grins, disappears briefly behind one of the opaque, red screens in the far corner. When he comes back, the dress is folded over his arm. He moves to shake it out, then pauses, seems to rethink, regards me thoughtfully for a moment. He nods to himself once before clapping his hands sharply, twice.

Percei and Nitya appear instantly, glide out from the door to the right, followed by Rendwick, who appears unexpectedly flustered. Flux simply looks at them, holds out the fabric, still draped over his forearm. His face has changed, become utterly serious, absorbed. I admire his professionalism. He must love his work a great deal, to accept so many losses.

"Go." He commands. The assistants jump into action. Percei pulls me to my feet, leads me over to the make-up station opposite of the screen, where she and Nitya begin pulling and fiddling with my hair, while Rendwick begins slathering, brushing and dabbing y skin with all manner of concoctions.

"Now, close your eyes, Kuria," Percei commands. Then, a few moments later, "okay, now stand up…no, no, keep your eyes closed. Just, be a doll, Kuria. A doll—relax, let us move you…"

I close my eyes, allow my mind to take me a million miles away. I'm floating, gliding through the ocean…

"…Flux?" I ask, still adrift on the great, stormy ocean in my head.

"Hm?" his voice is somewhere to my left, preoccupied; he must be overseeing his assistant's work.

"How do you do it?" my voice sounds thin, a little more depressed than I intended.

"What, dear? Oh, Percei, that's lovely. Nitya, a bit darker, don't you think?" I think for a moment. How to phrase this without coming across uncaring…or worse: afraid, lost.

"How do you work with us, year after year…talk with us, groom us, get to know us…and then watch us go out to die? How can you stand it?" My voice has dropped to a tired musing. I'm genuinely curios. There's a long pause for a moment, and I can sense Flux thinking.

"Rendwick, a bit more blue…" Is he going to ignore the question?

"Flux—"

"I'm holding out," he says finally. I feel the assistants' administrations freeze for a fraction of an instant. This must be a taboo topic amongst them.

"For what?"

"I'm not actually sure. An end, I suppose. An out…something has to change eventually, right?" I don't answer…I'm not sure about change. I haven't even decided if it's good or bad, yet-let alone a genuine possibility. "Besides," he continues, "the more of you I can help, the better. I have to do what I can so that some of you make it out." His voice strikes an odd chord. I suppose it's as good an explanation as any. Flux is doing what he can. I wonder which is worse: going out to die, or watching people you care about fight to their deaths, unable to do anything more than dress them up.

"Alright, this way." One of them—probably Percei—pulls me forward.

"Okay, you can open your eyes, Tobi," Flux says from somewhere right behind me. Reluctant to leave my ocean void, I peel my eyes open slowly.

For a moment, I can't say anything, merely stare at the girl in the mirror. If she can even be called that. She looks…inhuman; supernatural. The dress is silver, dark like steel. It hugs my skin, stops midway down my thigh and shimmers in the light. I look to one of the angled mirrors; the back dips low, made of sheer until just above my tail bone, where the steely fabric falls to a sweeping train that bleeds back to sheer along the ground. My skin is tinged with the same silver-gray, but not heavily, with just a touch of blue. My eyes are rimmed with thick black, grey irises popping. My hair has been darkened to mercury at the front, slicked back from my face before it falls over my shoulder, contained in a straight, low ponytail. The white-blond strands are stark against the darkness of the dress. I look wild. _Fierce_. Like a killer.

"I love it," I breathe at last. Flux grins.

"I knew you would! You look like a shark." I turn from the mirror, meet his gaze, eyes steely. My tumultuous insides have calmed; my resolve is hardened. I can accept this image of myself.

"I _feel_ like a shark."

**Feeling like a shark...not a bad way to go into the Hunger Games, really. Unless you feel like a nurse shark, and then you're a little fried. Or a baskng shark...according to _Safarilover1 _they don't even have teeth!**

**Also, I am aware that there will have to be some catalyst for the story's development, probably starting in this next chapter. What better catalyst than a romance? But the way I see it, there are three options for Tobi's romantic life, so I've decided to put up a poll! Yay! Be warned: I will try not to post the next chapter of this until I get some feedback on this poll, just to save myself from having to backtrack later. (Unless, of course, no one responds...in which case, I will be very sad for a while, then think "well, fine then; I'll bake it myself!" and just make my own decisions. And if people don't like 'em, too bad-I gave y'all a chance! Haha-anyway, please review!**

**POLL:**

**a.) TobixCato (as originally planned)**

**b.) TobixFinnick**

**c.)Both! (as in, Tobi has yet another emotional conflict...)**

**Let me know what you think!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey, guys! I know-I said I wouldn't post again until I got a good response from the poll...but I just couldn't wait! Plus, I literally got a review (thank you, by the way, to the mysterious "guest" reviewer!) that said, simply, "UPLOAD". Just like that, in all caps. So I indulged myself, and my guest. But don't worry-I'll postpone chapter 12 until I get a reading on what you guys want! Unless, of course, you take forever, in which case I will just do whatever I want. (So send in your thoughts, people! Haha.)**

**Anyway, on to the chapter! It's a bit of a long one, so hopefully you will have something to munch on until enough responses to the poll come in.**

Backstage it's dark, yet packed with the kaleidoscopic color of tributes in costume. White walls provide thin barriers between the tributes and the stage, where a voiceover is announcing Caesar Flickerman. We can hear the crowd's cheers from here—they echo through the space, oddly distorted by each ricochet off the walls. It adds to the already tense, eerie atmosphere.

We're scattered throughout the space, standing with our district partners and our prep teams; a few of us glare across the space at one another. I notice with mixed emotions that quite a few looks are directed toward me and Oscar, followed quickly by scowling double-takes. It's not surprising—we make quite a pair. Flux and Oscar's designer, Sabille, have done fabulous collaborative work.

I, of course, look like some creature of the deep, cold-blooded and fierce. _Fierce._ Oscar is dressed in a smart, navy suit, with a silver tie: a normal, dapper guy from the neck down. Then his skin turns blue, a shade lighter than mine. Two sets of gills adorn the skin just under his jaw; his coppery curls are intermixed with the clearest silver bubbles, gelled back off his face and up in tufts; as though an invisible stream runs through it. His eyes have been lined with black, much thinner than my own, just enough to give him a surreal appearance. We stand out from the tuxes and frilly, mundane dresses worn by our competition. After all, everyone else seems to be mimicking the capitol's strange sense of fashion; Flux and Sabille have found their ocean theme, and stuck to it.

My gaze anchors on the tributes from 12 as Percei comes around for a final make-up check. The girl—Katniss—is wearing a relatively simple, yet gorgeous, dress; red, covered in yellow and orange sequins. I can't help but narrow my gaze at her. She's the _girl on fire_, right? She must have something up her sleeve…I offer a light, empty smile as she catches my gaze. Her eyes are the same color as mine, and as I stare, I find that they're almost as wild. Except where mine flow, unpredictable, hers are hard as stone. _She's got something,_ I think, slightly envious. In those eyes, there's something strong; an anchor. I wonder how she found it…like everyone else, I've heard the thing about her sister, but that's not enough. After all, I've got my brother. _Grandma_. _Mag_, _Hiram_, _Captain_. So many reasons to go home…none of them are enough to give me that solidity, an anchor. _I am adrift_.

Whatever it is, she tells people its name is Prim. And yet. As I stare into those orbs—so alike, yet ever different from mine—I know there's something else.

She blinks, and the connection is lost. I watch her partner, Peeta, lay a hand on her arm, glance in my direction. She shrugs him off, turns around to talk with her designer. I'm almost excited to see her interview. Almost at the same moment, the tributes are ushered into a line. I watch as prep teams trickle out of the space, tributes move like zombies toward `the stage.

"We have to leave you now," Finnick has come up behind me, places a hand on my shoulder. I turn to find he's not actually looking at me. His tanned face is lined with tension, blue eyes focused over Oscar's shoulder, toward the stage door. I look in the same direction, meet another strong gaze. I take an involuntary half-step back, accidentally leaning into Finnick, who puts his hands protectively on my shoulders. Cato's face is masked, smirk ever in place, dark eyes cruel. Something's different about him, today, and I know as our gazes lock that he must be remembering our last encounter. _He's in full performance mode._ The Cato I met on the rooftop, who laughed so bitterly, is nowhere in sight; in his place, he's created a cold-blooded killer. _Well, I'm no different, am I? Shark, indeed._ "Don't make eye contact," Finnick murmurs, steers me around.

"Just remember what we talked about, Oscar," I hear Sabille's lilting accent; she's placed both hands on the boy's shoulders, bent to his level. He nods seriously, wearing what I assume is his game face.

"I don't know if I can do this…" I find myself whispering, gaze still stuck on Oscar's genuine face. My head is full of faces: Oscar, Cato, Katniss…Brook and Grandma.

"You can, my dear," Flux responds with an easy smile. He pats me gently on the back. I nod slowly. He thinks I'm worried about the interview. Well, let them think that's it—that I have performance anxiety. _Well, and I do, don't I? I'm afraid of performing too well…_

I watch Blye, Flux, Percei, Nitya, Sabille and her team walk off, toward the backdoor that leads to the hallway of studios, sigh heavily before turning…to walk smack into a suit-covered chest. I rub my nose, slowly tilt my head up. It's Finnick. I thought he left. He looks down at me, something unreadable in his gaze, and for a moment I am lost in the blue. Then he turns abruptly to Oscar, claps him heartily on the shoulder.

"Now listen up, you two," he begins jauntily. Why do I get the feeling he's only talking to Oscar? "This is an important opportunity—let the audience get to know you. Whichever aspect you've chosen to expose, let them see all of it. That's what they want—to think they understand you. Throw in something they can latch onto, and that's all you need to do. Make them want to root for you." He pats Oscar's shoulder again, pushes him gently toward the line forming behind the stage.

"Thanks, Finnick," the boy murmurs, genuinely grateful. Finnick's expression falls for only the barest fraction of a moment as Oscar walks away. My heart twists; no matter how much the audience wants to root for us, Oscar's chances of getting home are slim, at best. I know it, Finnick knows it…Oscar probably knows it best of all. So why is he still grateful?

With the question unanswered, I begin to follow my partner toward the line. Glimmer, the District 1 female, is preparing to walk up the stage steps; we're two of the four not yet in line. The other two are the boy and girl from 12, who seem to have momentarily disappeared.

"Just a minute, Tobi," Finnick's hand wraps warmly around my forearm, pulls me back. I turn to find his face has lost all of its jaunty flare, once again reflects the tension beneath. My heart jumps, and I narrowly resist the impulse to stare dumbly toward my ribcage. It feels unnatural…my heart has been twisting and sinking alternately for days, and suddenly it decides to jump like that? Just because of Finnick's worried face? I clear my throat in an attempt to cover up my unease, stare straight at Finnick, force my face to remain still, balanced.

"What is it?" I ask softly, voice frozen. His gaze finally flicks away from Cato to find my eyes. He bends down slowly, puts both hands on my shoulders and stares intently into my face. I shift uncomfortably—what is he doing?—but his grip is firm.

"Are you still in there, Tobi?" he whispers, voice oddly serious, eyes sad. I stutter for a moment…what does he mean?

"Of course I am," I mumble, trying to turn away.

"Really?" I bite my lip—his tone has caught me off guard. I can't meet his gaze. He sighs, straightens and releases my shoulders. "You're walking a dangerous line, Tobi," he says softly. I can hear the knowing in his voice—the recognition. "Don't lose yourself in the act, little fish." I turn, slowly; feel the ice in my veins.

"Who was it that told me to do what I have to do?" I demand. Where's all that understanding I didn't want an hour ago? It's too late, now…

"I meant in the arena—dealing with other tributes. I didn't mean for you to completely change yourself, Tobi." I look at the ground, turn toward the stage.

"Well, too late, I'm afraid." I take a step away, only to be pulled back again. _Like a fish on a hook…_I land solidly against Finnick, his arms wrap tightly around me. I almost can't stand it, caught between the idea that he'll break my ribs, and the painful knowledge that it feels like home. _His arms are just like Brooks._

"Never too late, little fish," he murmurs above my head, then abruptly he lets go, backs away with a little wave and a melancholy smile, coppery curls askew. _Finnick Odaire, the capitol's playboy._ Well, but I should have seen this one coming. _You're not playing fair, Finnick_. I turn, take carefully measured steps toward the line. Glimmer has already stepped onto the stage—I'm late.

I fall in right in front of Oscar. I can feel his soft gaze between my shoulder blades, curious. I ignore him, preoccupied by the sneer Cato casts back at me. I meet his gaze squarely, face blank, watch him chuckle as he turns back around. Within moments, Glimmer bounces back off the stage, and I've missed my opportunity to pinpoint her angle. Oh well, it's not hard to guess, based on her tinselly outfit, loose curls and seductress' smile. The line moves forward like a caterpillar, and Finnick's words weave their way back into my mind. _Never too late…_I suppress a sigh as Marvel ascends the stairs to the stage. Because of course, it _is _too late—it has been from the very beginning. _I won't cry._ I'm adrift on a chunk of ice, tossed by a storm. I've

got two options: die on the ice, or jump into the water and try to swim. And not even the playboy Finnick Odaire can keep me from swallowing some water along the way.

My hands have grown clammy, and I resist the urge to curl them in my dress as District 3's boy takes the stage. I'm next, and with each tribute my mind has receded further into blankness. What on earth should I say? _Trust Flickerman._ Right. He has made everyone in front of me seem utterly magnificent: Marvel, cocky and relaxed; Clove, mean and sadistic; Cato, ruthless, ready to kill. Even the rather plain boy on stage now seems rather valiant as Flickerman effortlessly highlights his personality traits.

All too soon, three descends the stairs, infuriatingly pleased with himself. He even tosses me a wink as he passes, which I pointedly ignore. My heart is hammering in my ribcage so loud that I'm sure Cato can hear it from where he stands at the back wall, arms crossed, sneering. Why do I feel like his eyes have settled onto the back of my head?

"Now, on to that mythical mermaid from the parade, Kuria Silverside!" Flickerman's voice booms with my cue, and Oscar gives me an encouraging smile as I step delicately onto the first step. I take my time—all I need is to trip onto the stage—and when I reach the top I am instantly blinded.

The lights are intense, pink and white and purple, reflected from iridescent backscreens; the crowd is wild, a chorus of screams, shrieks, bellows. Combined with my own heartbeat, I can't hear much. So I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, but allow my back some give, slink forward. _Think shark, Tobi. Fast, deadly, vicious. Confident. Fierce._ By the time I've taken the seat across from Flickerman, I am fully shark-minded. A spotlight has engulfed me, and the crowd has fallen silent.

"My, my, Kuria—don't we look severe, tonight?" Flickerman begins, looking to the audience for confirmation.

"Call me Tobi," I purr, lower my voice to a dangerous tenor. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.

"Well, Tobi, tell us: what have the last few days been like, for you?" He leans forward, indigo hair catching the light. I offer a toothy smile that doesn't reach my icy gaze.

"Most amusing, Caesar," I answer with a small chuckle. Of course, they have been anything but—more like terrifying or heartbreaking, really—but they don't need to know that.

"Amusing? Now, I must admit we don't often hear that, do we folks?" There are shouts from the crowd.

"Well, Caesar, in circumstances such as these, one has few options," I confide, allow the killer to show a touch of warmth. "Sorrow, depression, desperation, anger…these are emotions with dead ends." I stare directly into the audience, offer that toothy smile again. "Amusement…detachment. These are almost as good as hope." The crowd is hushed. _I've got them!_

"That's an interesting way to think about it." Flickerman muses, before deciding that's enough of the moping. "So Tobi, do you think there is hope, after all, for you? I mean, once you hit the arena." I'm surprised by the bluntness of the question—he's basically asking what I think my likelihood of death is.

"Well, Caesar, I don't think it matters if there's hope or not; I don't care what my chances are." He leans forward, grabs my hand.

"But Tobi, surely you aren't giving up so soon?" His voice is overly animated, clearly misconstruing my answer as suicide. He sweeps a hand out to the crowd. "We all want you to fight, triumph, don't we folks?" The cheers are wild. I shake my head, grin wider.

"Don't worry, Caesar—I won't give up." I look dead at the audience again, face completely serious. "No matter what my odds, I will beat them; even if the situation is hopeless, I will find a way to live. I have people at home, waiting for me, and I will _not _let them down." My voice is raw, naturally deepened by emotion. My throat constricts with unshed tears—I didn't know I had this bottled up. Well, better to let it out now, where the audience can consume it. Such thoughts are useless in the arena.

"That's a will if I've ever seen one," Flickerman sits back in his chair, eyes oddly sober, before sparking forward again. "And I hope it carries you through the arena and all the way back to those loved ones back home." He stands, and I follow, grip the hand he offers firmly.

"Thank you, Caesar."

"Let's hear it again for District Four's Tobi Silverside!" He shouts again. The wild cacophony of the crowd's cheers follows me off stage, down the stairs, and shakily past the line of tributes still waiting to go up. Oscar's hand snags me as I pass, and I turn to see that he's smiling at me.

"You were great, Tobi," he whispers, right before he takes the stage. I watch him go, heart in my throat. The interview went well; I did what I meant to. _But on that stage, it was real—I meant every word. _I gulp, look around at all the tributes; the children who will be thrown into the arena with me. _I meant it all…that I will do whatever it takes to win. And what it takes…is killing every single one of you._

**So...yeah. Still a bit angsty. Probably because there isn't enough action yet. Soon, we'll get back to the training arena, so there will be some more fun encounters...which will largely be defined by your responses to the poll I belatedly added to the previous chapter. So, I'll give you that one again...and add another one, just for fun:**

**POLL 1: Pairings**

**a.)TobixCato**

**b.)TobixFinnick**

**c.)Both (which will come with lots of emotional confusion, and probably some masculine spats...)**

**POLL 2: Scene prevalence (which of these settings would you enjoy more often?)**

**a.) Tobi and Cato in the training arena**

**b.) Tobi and Finnick in private training sessions**

**c.) Tobi and Cato meeting randomly around the tower (like on the rooftop, in the hallways, in the elevator, etc.) where Finnick may or may not interrupt.**

**d.) Offer your own suggestions**

**e.) Just get to the games already!**

**Haha-so, there are your many options. And again, if none of you feel like commenting, I will just have to continue playing God all by myself...mwahahaha...?**


	12. Chapter 12

**Alright, I think I've probably left that poll open long enough. Thanks so much to those of you who responded! The results are pretty varied-there doesn't seem to be a marked preference for one pairing over another. And one of you geniuses out there recommended that I go for Tobato during the games, then switch to Tobick later. That's what I'm probably going to go for. As far as the scenes are concerned, it seemed that most people wanted training with Cato, and then some outside scenes with Cato and potentially Finnick interference? I don't know-I'll go check again. But for now, here's what I came up with! Let me know if it's what you guys were looking for.**

**Final note: I am not very good with action scenes-as in, detailing fights and the like. This is one of my first attempts with that, so let me know if it comes across awkward (because there will be a lot more of these before the story ends...)**

**Now then, on to this rather long chapter...**

_At first, it feels like I'm back on the sea; floating on my back in the middle of the night. The moon is out, but it's overcast. The soft, soothing sounds of the waves hitting rocky beach strike my ears as from a great distance. I close my eyes, focus on that constant lull, allow it to fill my mind…_

_My eyes snap open. That isn't waves…what is that? I try to sit up, swim toward the sound, but find that I can't move. Are those…screams? My voice is caught in my throat—I'm choking on it. _

"_Yes, those are screams," a voice calls. I can't see…_

"_Who are you?" The screams grow steadily louder—a deafening cacophony of terror, pain, pleas for help. "Who are they?!" Why can't I move?_

"_Don't you remember us?" the voice whispers, clicks its tongue in disapproval. "What a shame…" As the voice fades, my head snaps to the side, controlled by puppet strings. I nearly choke on the thick, briny water. There, on the shoreline, Caesar Flickerman's navy hair catches the thin moonlight. He's standing with President Snow._

"_Congratulations! You've won the 74__th__ Annual Hunger Games!" What? My head whips to the other side. There's a shadowy figure. I squint as it steps into the light…_

"_Congratulations," it gurgles. The screams have gotten louder: "Help!" "No!"_

"No…" I sit bolt upright in bed, hands clapped to the sides of my head. _No more screaming! _My throat is hoarse, eyes wide and staring.

"Tobi!" The light clicks on; I'm blind. Firm arms encircle me. They're trembling…or I am. "Tobi, it's okay—calm down!" Finnick? I feel my breathing slow, heart rate drop. The trembling stops…whichever of us it was.

"…Finnick?" my voice is small, rough.

"Yeah, it's me, little fish" he breathes. For a moment, neither of us moves. But I have to pull away before long.

"Sorry," I murmur, shame-faced. "Nightmare." He nods, sits back. I can't look at his face. Did he ever have such dreams? Of course he did—he was fourteen when he was a tribute. But I bet he toughed it out alone instead of screaming like a child.

"Care to share?" He asks, staring into space. I shrug.

"Lots of blood," I realize suddenly. I suppose that wasn't even the ocean, really. "I won the hunger games." Finally, he turns to look at me. "Everyone…I killed everyone…" I choke on the words. Finnick doesn't say anything, merely pats my shoulder. And what could he say? That it was just a dream—that it wasn't real? He'd be lying. If I want to survive, that dream will prove a premonition for a day a week and a half from now.

The silence has grown thick and heavy by the time Finnick pushes off the bed, walks back toward the door. He doesn't turn to look at me again. I can't blame him, now that he knows what gruesome images float around my subconscious. After all, most tributes have night terrors about their own deaths…not about killing everyone.

"Well…you might as well get yourself ready," he says. "Today's a big day." I glance to the window as he leaves the room. It's already morning—doubtless Blye will wobble in any moment, screeching her usual morning call.

With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs out from under the quilt, pad across the cold floor to the shower. The initial burst of water is frigid, but I allow it to send my body into tingling wakefulness. Finnick's right, after all: Today will be a very big day.

I stand alone in a back corner of the elevator as we speed toward the training room, making mental notes. Today is the day for forming alliances—the last training day before we hit the arena; individual assessment day. The question is do I want to team up with anyone? The careers are going to be a team for sure—that's 1, 2 and 3…Most years, Oscar and I would have teamed up with them. Technically, district four is a career district. But this year…I glance over at Oscar. _We're not really career material._

Katniss and Peeta will probably partner up. _Or maybe not…_I think with a tiny half-smile, remembering the look on Katniss' face when it was plastered all over the stadium. After my interview the night before, the broadcast continued largely as it has any other year. Until, of course, district 12 brought the fire. _I knew she'd_ _have something up her sleeve. I just wasn't expecting it to be romance. Apparently, neither was she. _The cameras will be on that pair like barnacles on harbor pillars. I certainly don't want that kind of attention.

By the time we're filing off the elevator, having systematically gone through the tributes, I've come to the conclusion that it's safest to go it alone. Though, inexplicably, I've had to continuously force Cato's face out of my head.

"Alright, you two," Finnick starts as we hover outside the training room. "The important part of today comes later—make sure you take it easy in the circuit. Nothing straining, no blunders."

"What about alliances?" Oscar asks quietly. I cut my gaze at him. He must have been thinking along the same lines as me. Finnick shakes his head.

"Not worth it." I thought as much. "The careers would kill you a day into the games. Twelve is jaded and stubborn—they'll never team up; the rest are too weak or too brutal to be any help. No," he locks eyes with us individually. "Best go it alone." We nod curtly, and step through the doors.

The other tributes are already here, set up and ready to go. Many have started with the survival stations; those with weapons are carelessly tossing them around with no real motivation. Today is nothing like that first day of training. The room still thrums with energy, but it's crisp; tense. Tributes trade guarded glances and keep to themselves or their teams.

Today we take the first steps toward becoming enemies.

For a moment Oscar and I just stand in the doorway. Oscar shrinks a bit as the wiry kid from three shoots him a look. I huff a sigh through my nose before striding through the middle of the room. As I walk, I pointedly allow my frame to fall into a leisurely slink—a posture I've perfected since last night's interview. At a glance I am lazy, slumped, utterly un-threatening and completely forgettable. But in reality my muscles are coiled, ready to spring, like a coral snake, floating along and always prepared to strike. _Dangerous._

Taking my cue, Oscar scurries over to the camouflage station. I watch him go—he's already been to that station, and supposedly he's bad at it. Maybe he wants to improve? Or…_Ah. _Peeta's over there painting his arm into a tree. I wonder if Oscar's hoping to team up. _Not that it's remotely my business._

I stop casually in the middle of the room and look around for a suitable station. Most of the careers, shockingly, are at the survival stations. Well, but I suppose it makes sense. They've all run straight to weapons since day one. And they're supposed to save their strength—might as well learn the essentials, today. I grin, head toward the station for swordplay. That first day I discovered that I'm not terrible with a sword, if I can find one light enough. Plus, Finnick gave me a lot of pointers during our private training session and left me feeling pretty confident.

The station is relatively unoccupied, the line composed only of tributes from districts three, nine and eleven. _Well, but I'd hate to go up against eleven._ He's a monster, easily batting at the instructor like a bear with a doll. I feel sorry for the boy from nine, in line right after him.

Before long, it's my turn to step up on the little platform.

"Pick your sword," the new instructor commands as she swaps out with the guy clobbered by eleven. I amble over to the sword rack, carefully lift and weigh my options. After four, my heart sinks—there isn't one I can lift. Then I pick up the fifth one. It's unexpectedly light, though it's the same general size and shape as the others. I throw a puzzled look to the trainer, who's grinning.

"It's a special mineral," she says. "Lighter…but also weaker. It will break." With a gulp, I notice her bulky, exposed shoulders. No doubt she's using a much stronger sword. There isn't anything to do, of course, but walk to the middle of the platform, square off. _Alright,_ I tell myself. _Pretend it's real. This person will kill you if you can't defend yourself. _Whether because she knows what I'm thinking or planned to go hard, the trainer rushes forward without any warning. I duck out of the way, heart in my throat, but her sword flashes toward my face.

The sword-on-sword clang rattles my brain. Already breathing hard, I peer at her through our crossed blades. She grins, presses forward. As expected, she's a lot stronger than me…and her words about the sword breaking echo through my head. _But most of the tributes will be stronger than me. And mind games are all part of it…_

With a growl, I leap to the side; she stumbles forward at the sudden loss of opposition. I sweep my blade down toward her back. The idea is solid…unfortunately everything about my form is clumsy. She drops, rolls away from the blade…but towards me? Before I can register what's happening, she's hooked her legs around my feet, yanked them out from under me—a maneuver made possible by my sloppy posture.

I hit the ground hard, almost lose my grip on the hilt. _Rule number one, _Finnick's voice echoes. _Never let go of your weapon._ So I manage to keep my fingers curled around the sword, but it does little good. Within seconds, the instructor straddles my chest, knees pinning my arms at the wrists. I can't move.

"What do you do in this situation?" She asks, cool as a codfish. I frown.

"You die," I mutter. She laughs, shakes her head.

"Only if you're not creative," she insists, stands and hoists me to my feet. "Remember—you still had your legs. As long as you have a limb available, use it." I nod thoughtfully, descend the opposite side of the platform, only to freeze at a series of slow, mocking claps. I turn, face held carefully blank. Cato. Of course.

"Well done, four," he sneers. "You've officially proven that you're no threat at all." He saunters forward, leans in. "Looks like we should just let you have a sword—you'll fall on it all by yourself." I offer the ghost of a smile, remember that I've forgotten to put my weapon away. I whisk it up, narrowly missing Cato's face. To his credit, he doesn't flinch—doesn't even blink. It's infuriating.

"Maybe that's all part of the act," I wave the tip of the blade under his chin. Maddeningly, he chuckles.

"I could believe that, "he sneers, circling me like some kind of vulture, "if it weren't for your hold." I resisted the urge to follow his movement—big mistake. Standing at my back he suddenly reaches forward, around my shoulders to grip both my wrists. His chest is flush against my back, chin almost resting on top of my head. My heart is a snare drum, face on fire.

"M-my hold is fine," I contend, forcing my voice to stay firm. I try to pull away, but he holds me in place. _I should _not _be reacting this way! _I glance toward my heart with a scowl. _What on earth are you playing at?_

"No," Cato murmurs above my head. "Relax your wrists—just keep your grip solid. Like…that." He readjusts my hands, releases them just as I try to break free again. With only a momentary stumble, I whirl to face him, grip the sword with both hands and hold it out at him. To my chagrin, my hold is much steadier… He chuckles, and for a moment I straighten, caught off guard. His laugh was so…genuine. No bitterness, none of his usual vicious cruelty. Just the happy laugh of some little boy having fun. _Since when does that sound come from Cato? _

"Well, at least you learn quickly," he chuckles, shrugs to someone over my shoulder. I turn to find my gaze met by Clove's fierce glare. Suddenly, to my horror, I realize that most of the tributes—certainly all of the careers—are staring at me. _Perform._

I glare around the room, lean back into my dangerous pose, put the sword away.

"Watch out in the arena, two," I growl as I pass. "I'm sure my grip will be just fine when I slice and dice you to ribbons." He laughs. I grind my teeth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a rapid, downward blue, followed by a pained grunt. I turn toward the sounds; it's from the station for hand to hand combat. _Don't do it, Tobi,_ a voice in my head warns. _After all, the Careers are still watching._ I'm more confident in my unarmed fighting than my swordplay…but there's no guarantee I won't make a fool of myself.

_Well, but if they think less of me, perhaps they'll forget about me in the arena,_ I realize bitterly, walk toward the station and get in line. The tributes in front of me appear average at best, most of them lasting only a few moments against the instructor. Then again, the cynical part of my mind reminds me that any one of them could be acting…As I get closer, my confidence nevertheless grows. The instructor is good, but no better than Hiram or any of the King Fisher's seasoned sailors. _I bet I can beat him…_

"He doesn't look like he should really be teaching, does he?" My heart flips; I force myself to turn slowly, unaffected.

"Are you following me, two?" The question is soft, bored, but I find myself far too interested in the answer.

"Nah," he shrugs, quirks a cocky smile. "I just want to show this guy how to actually use his fists." He points to the trainer. I say nothing, merely stare for a moment, and turn back around.

"Next!" the voice is thick, winded. I ascend the stairs slowly, give the girl from ten a chance to regain her feet and scramble down the stars. By the time the instructor takes his position, I'm in a comfortable fighting stance: knees loose, hands in front; body angled and balanced. My brain is swirling as I try to remember all of Hiram's lessons, and Finnick's pointers since.

For a moment, we simply stand there. I don't know what I'm expecting…some sign to start, I suppose. I don't get one.

Without warning, he moves. In two steps, the guy is right in front of me with a jab toward my face. I breathe the way Hiram always taught me: keep the breath warm, alive. Let it settle you…slow down time.

I grab the instructor's wrist, duck under it and twist. As expected, he leans with the twist. _As he should, if he doesn't want his elbow to snap._

He counters with a knee to my side. I take the hit—I'm not flexible enough to dodge without releasing his wrist, which is what he's probably aiming for. I clench my jaw—he kicked hard. _Who'd have thought I had a stubborn streak?_

He uses the same leg to hook my foot. _Bad idea..._ I go ahead and fall, pulling on the wrist. He topples toward me, fist raised. I land on my back, kick both feet up and catch him in the stomach, sending him over my head. _Use an opponent's superior weight against him._

I've finally released him. Unfortunately, his wrist and whatever he hit in the fall probably hurt a lot less than where he kicked my ribs. Standing is slightly painful. _That will leave a bruise._ I remember Finnick's advise today with a grimace, but find it quickly becoming a smile. For the past few days, my mind has been plagued by thoughts of the tributes I will kill. Ironically, when I'm actually fighting in practice for those deaths, my head is blissfully empty._ Just action and reaction_, I think, grin widening to reveal my canines. _Yes…this way is much simpler._

My relief is short-lived, however, as the instructor straightens, nods to someone off the platform.

"Why don't you let me interject?" I fight not to roll my eyes as Cato saunters onto the platform. The trainer gives him a doubtful glance, but Cato simply claps him on the shoulder, offers a smile somewhere between friendly and threatening. The instructor nods reluctantly, allows Cato to take his place after whispering something into the career's ear. I narrow my eyes as we square off.

"Can't you just save it for the arena, two?" I mumble. He grins like he's genuinely having fun.

"You know, Bob just said the same thing."

"Bob?" I repeat. He shrugs.

"I don't know his actual name," he nods toward the instructor, who is observing from beside the platform. I don't respond. How typical of a career to randomly re-name the instructors.

"Are you going to make a move?" I drawl tonelessly. We've been circling for nearly a minute. He shrugs, offers that cocky grin.

"Maybe…maybe not. You?" For a moment, I say nothing, merely shrug. Then, hopefully out of the blue, I spring forward. Normally, I prefer defensive fighting. But with Cato, my patience has long worn thin.

He laughs once as I speed forward—an excited bark. I feint for his face with a right hook, but swing my left foot around at his side. Unfortunately, he dodges both by moving closer to my person. My heel hits the floor with a loud thud as I spring back, but he catches my left ankle, all the while maintaining that grin. I lose my balance, and he pulls me toward him, drops my ankle in favor of my wrist. I can barely catch my breath as he spins me, and wind up with my back to his chest, arms crossed and wrists captive.

"Shall we dance?" he whispers into my ear. My jaw juts forward in irritation, and I stomp on his foot, hard. He sucks air through his teeth, loosens his grip, and I yank both of my hands in toward my body, spring away. I stand there, panting, for a moment, watch him straighten and send me an unexpectedly open look. Then he grins as broadly as ever, lunges forward.

I manage to dodge his first attack, but not the second. _He's fast!_ As I'm ducking an elbow to the face, he brings the other one around, hooks my neck. I yelp as he throws me forward but manage to latch on to his forearm as I fall.

What worked on "Bob" doesn't work on Cato. He simply twists his arm free of my grasp, allows me to roll away and regain my feet. My hair has slipped from Flux's careful bun, hangs around my face. I'm breathing hard. As I watch, Cato saunters forward; his cocky smile has morphed into something mildly dangerous. A line of cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. _Pretend it's real._ The mantra consumes my mind, pushes the tendril of fear back with adrenaline.

Like an eel, Cato darts forward. I throw up a block in the nick of time—that blow would have broken my nose. My heart sinks—he's only just gotten serious.

He's behind me before I know it. I glare forward, direct my attention to my ears. A short _whoosh_ of air announces his attack, and I lunge sideways, spin into a high kick with y right foot. His eyes are wide as the foot speeds toward his jaw, but he recovers quickly, leans back out of range and grabs my foot. _Here we go, again…_I yelp as he uses it to yank me off my feet and throw me on the ground. He's pinned me before my eyes reopen.

I'm breathing hard, sore...beaten. He's captured both my wrists, one knee hovering on my sternum. If he pushes too hard, I'll suffocate. _If a limb is free, use it. _I smirk at him, pull my knee up between his legs. His smirk twists, and the career curls up and falls to the side. I only feel guilty for a moment as I push myself to y feet. It _was _a low blow. _But guess which one of us is still alive._

I descend the stairs with a bounce in my step, despite my exhaustion. I feel much more...capable. Unfortunately, I haven't gone five feet past the station when strong arms encircle me from behind, trap my arms in place. I sigh—this feels familiar. My heart even does that little flop again, and I freeze against his chest.

"Low blow," he murmurs into my ear. I quirk my head to the side—the laughter is gone from his voice, replaced with something almost mean.

"You have strange obsessions," I growl under my breath, struggled against his hold. "But of the two of us, who survived that simulation?" He scoffs at my bravado; the bitterness is back in his voice.

"You think you would be alive if that had happened in the arena?" he demands, voice oddly forced. _No_…in real time, there were quite a few opportunities for him to kill me. Cato chuckles cruelly at my silence; his breath tickles my ear before he abruptly lets me go.

I spin to face him. The grin is still there, but there's something off about it. _Something sad…_He backs away, gives me a trite thumbs-up before turning to stride back to the glaring careers.

"You had a nice roundhouse, four," he calls over his shoulder. "If you're not careful, you'll actually kick someone next time." I watch him rejoin Clove and Glimmer at the plant station, turn to go find Oscar. Once again, he's left me puzzling over which Cato is the real one. But when we get to the arena, there won't be time for any of that. I harden my heart, sit down next to Oscar and begin methodically mixing dyes. _I'm sick of mind games._

**yeah...sorry this was so long. I'm thinking about going back and merging a few of the earlier chapters, just for the sake of continuity and pacing. I haven't decided yet...anyway, let me know what you think! And if you're a new reader who still wants to reply to the polls in chapter 11, feel free-after all, this stuff will continue to develop as the story continues, and is always subject to change ;P**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello, everyone! At long last, I am posting again! Geez, between finals and the holidays, I thought I would never get this chapter written. As it is, it's been quite a while, and for that I apologize-thank you for your patience! It doesn't help that I had the most unbelievable, infuriating case of writer's block! (that being said, this chapter may be a little rough...)**

**Anyway, thanks again to everyone who has stayed with me! I hope this chapter is suitable, and I hope to start regularly writing again...? Well, here's to hoping. Now, enjoy chapter 13!**

I don't even bother trying to sleep that night. Since arriving in the capitol, the nightmares have become progressively worse with each passing night…so of course, the night before the games offers a point of culmination that I don't want to consider. I'm avoiding my own imagination, as it has, regrettably, allied itself with my fears. So as I lay in the dark of my room, stare up into the blackness, I attempt to remain in denial. It's the easiest way to combat the knowledge that when the sun rises over the glistening dead fish that is the capitol, it may be my last chance to greet the morning.

Unfortunately, my meditative state of mind only carries so far. Within an hour of gazing into the static gloom, the darkness becomes suffocating. My imagination no longer confines itself to my dreamscape, but attempts to run rampant over my eyes, open and staring as they are. The specks of colored static ever-present in complete darkness move, conglomerate into faces: people from home cry for me; the strange shapes and colorful garb of the capitol float in twists and deformities like something ghoulish from one of my nightmares. Finally, the faces of the tributes race through the darkness and are cut down to fall in puddles of bloodied dirt. I don't have to picture any more to know whose weapon struck the blow.

With a jolt, I leap from the bed, narrowly avoid smacking my forehead against the low ceiling of the boat-style cot. I can't stay in the room a second longer…my breathing has escalated alarmingly, parallel to my heart's racing tattoo. The gasps that escape my lungs are the only sound in the room, and as I make my way haltingly toward the door, they seem to rise in volume until they are screams ringing in my ears. They don't stop until I'm gagging on them. _Don't stop breathing_.

The world feels unbearably chaotic as I stumble into the narrow passage between my room and Oscar's, feel my way through the sunken living room. I trip on the steps twice, the thuds muffled by the sounds of my growing panic, before I manage to reach the door to the apartment. Each district gets its own floor…but the rooms are strategically spaced apart, connected by a string of halls that, to a cynical mind, take up majority of the actual tower. Convenient passageways for capitol guards to reach the tributes should something happen. There was a year when I was young that two tributes from the same district tried to kill one another in their rooms.

When, at last, I break into the halls, it seems the world freezes for a moment. All is silent, illuminated by ice-blue lights that flicker from the walls. It feels like I'm under water, somewhere utterly clean, frigid. I imagine this must be what the legendary Arctic waters look like. Eventually, however, the world comes creeping back to life. My breathing reaches my ears in shallow, slow waves; my heart hammers persistently, as though losing strength as it tries to escape its ribbed cage.

I couldn't say how long I stand in the hallway, back rigid, gaze anchored on nothing, equidistant between the walls. _It's light…and blue._ It reminds me of the portholes of the Bobber. My heart has finally quieted, so I begin strolling aimlessly through the halls. Foot after foot of the same blue, blank walls. I can't tell if it's comforting or suffocating, but anything is better than going back to the darkness in my chambers.

I round a corner, and the door to my room disappears, leaving me trapped in a labyrinth of ice. I take a deep breath, find a smile almost dawning on my lips. Completely alone, my mind stays determinedly away from thoughts of tomorrow, the arena…I am back at the shore of the Bay, toes brushed by the scalloped, blue tongue of the ocean…

"Four." I whirl around so fast it's a wonder my head stays on my shoulders. As it is I'm sure I'll suffer whiplash later. Standing perhaps five feet away from me, bathed in blue, Cato offers a light grimace.

My first reaction is confused anger. Completely jolted from my blissful imaginings, I stride toward him, fists clenched. I refuse to recognize that he towers at least a foot over me, or that if push came to shove he could break every bone in my body without breaking a sweat. I glare up at him.

"_What_ are you doing here?!" I demand in a fierce whisper. He shrugs, looks away and, to my surprise, takes a halfhearted step back. His hand rubs the back of his neck, scruffs through his hair as though the answer lies buried there. I lower my proverbial hackles, sheath the fangs and wait for his explanation, assuming he's not here to kill me in my sleep.

Finally, his eyes flick back to mine, and for the first time I notice the pallor in his face, caused by more than the blue mood light. His hands, down at his sides now, fidget nervously, and his eyes only pause on mine briefly before flicking about the space. I frown—this isn't the fierce career that dominates the training arena. It's not even the bitter teenage boy I talked to on the roof.

"I just…I needed to get away." He mumbles. I don't say anything in response to that, merely raise an eyebrow. What could he escape by coming to the fourth floor? Surely it was better for him down with the rest of the mechanical careers.

He must read something in my face, because Cato lets out a heavy sigh, turns to lean against the wall, head down. I wonder if that sigh contains every molecule of oxygen in his system, because once it's released he seems to stop breathing. I turn away, uncomfortably between emotions. Of course, I'm relieved to have my blue silence back…but after a few moments, it grows tense, and I can feel Cato's eyes burning holes in my back. I release a sigh of my own, turn back to face him.

"What exactly are you escaping by coming up here?" I ask quietly. My voice sounds oddly choked—a remnant of my earlier stress. He stares at me for a long moment before looking back at the ground. Then he seems to deflate, sliding his back down the wall to sit on the floor, knees up to support his elbow, which in turn holds his hand up to cup his chin. I watch all of this with mild detachment. Something in Cato's mannerisms are making me nervous.

"I wanted to get away from the rest of the careers." He says at last. I shift; this is uncomfortable. I can't decide whether to sit next to him or remain standing. Maybe I could sit against the opposite wall? It feels strange to look down at him…

"Why?" I ask simply, finally decide to sit awkwardly a foot away from him. He shoots me an amused half smile, and I look away.

"You really think I want to spend the last night before the games surrounded by them?" he asks. I shrug.

"Why not? They're the same as you are."

"Exactly!" he scoffs. I shake my head slightly, not really understanding. Or perhaps not wanting to. He gives me a disbelieving look. "Come on, Four," he prods. "Would you want to spend tonight surrounded by people like me?" My return stare is pointed, and he chuckles awkwardly, rubs a hand over the back of his neck again. "Right…sorry for invading, I guess…"

I'm frowning at him again, trying to puzzle him out. Does he have multiple personality disorder, or something? There are just too many Cato's…

"Well, it's different for you, right?" I ask, wrap my arms around my knees, pull them against my chest. "I mean, for most of us, being surrounded by you guys is the equivalent of being dropped into a shipwreck swarmed by sharks." He quirks an eyebrow at me before cracking up. I frown.

"I suppose that's how you guys would see it," he rumbles through chuckles. "After all, we're trained for this. We learn early on that it's no big deal to kill someone. Hell, they're going to die eventually, anyway, might as well go out with a bang." His words are sharp, hard and cruelly mocking. But they're hollow, too, and I wonder how many times he's heard them. Suddenly the smile disappears from his face, again replaced with something that makes me very uneasy. My heart sinks to pound in my stomach, but I can't pinpoint the cause of my sudden anxiety.

"Well, aside from the training, we're all pretty well off until you get to district 9," I mumble, just to say something. He offers a thin smile.

"I guess."

"But the training makes a pretty big difference." He shoots me a look, trying to decide how serious I am. I quirk a grin, but I can't completely hide that I'm partially serious. How could I not be? There are reasons why the careers win as often as they do.

"It's never enough of a difference though, is it?" he nearly whispers. I frown, wait for him to continue. He shifts uncomfortably. "No matter how much we train, most of us will die. Only one winner, remember?" he laughs hollowly, and I wonder why on earth he would make such a gesture. After all, there's nothing funny about it…

"Well, at least you have a fighting chance." I mutter. There's a slight edge to my voice, because I think I've figured out why I'm so uneasy.

"Yeah…but how much better can that make anything? If I lose, I die." He swallows hard. "But if I win—if I live…" He looks at me, and I'm trapped in his gaze. I want to cry, scream at him and tell him to get off my floor and stop feeling sorry for himself. But mostly I'm sick to my stomach, because Cato—fighting machine, career—feels exactly the same way I do.

I glare at the floor. I don't want to know this. I want to think he and the other careers are cold, unfeeling killers. Why did he choose tonight to show me his humanity?

The silence stretches impossibly long, getting thinner and more brittle by the second. So when at last I have to break it, I feel like I shatter it.

"Do the other careers feel like that?" I ask so quietly it's a wonder he can hear me. Perhaps I'm hoping he doesn't—do I really want the answer? Thankfully, he shrugs.

"Who knows? That's part of why I had to get away from them, tonight. They all seem…calm. And I'm so…agitated; I can't stand the wait." I flinch away a bit—there's a touch of the machine in his voice. He cuts his gaze at me, offers a smile to balance out the hardness. More silence. "Do you have siblings?" He asks suddenly. For a moment I can't answer—where did that come from?

"Yeah—a younger brother," I answer at last, smile at the floor. "Brook. He wanted to volunteer for this madness…"

"You stopped him?" Cato's voice is…odd. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, wonder if he's insulted. After all, he volunteered.

"Yeah…he's only 15. No way was I letting him volunteer." I look at the floor. Is he mad? Then a huge hand covers my head, roughly musses my hair. I look up in surprise; Cato offers a broad grin, pats my head.

"Good move, four," he says. I find myself smiling with him, even laughing a bit through my anxiousness. I open my mouth to ask about his family.

"Tobi? What are you doing out here?" I freeze, whip my head around and stand quickly.

"Hey, Finnick…"

**So, like I said, a little rough around the edges. I stopped and started this one an awful lot...it almost broke the story for me! But, well, it _is _the 13th...hopefully it will get easier from here! Anyway, hope it wasn't too disappointing...and I hope Cato isn't too...unlike himself. It was hard to get to the good stuff without making him soften up a bit...anyway, look forward to chapter 14 sometime this week!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Alrighty, guys-here's chapter 14! I know, it's pretty short-as was the last one. To be honest, I originally envisioned this as part of chapter 13, and after a while I'll probably merge them. They're just too short on their own, and I don't want to go any further than this until chapter 15. So I'll leave them separate for those of you who already read chapter 13 (so you don't have to go back and re-read stuff) but in a couple of chapters I'll backtrack a little and stick this onto the end of chapter 13. So for now, just envision this as the continuation of the same chapter! Haha. **

**Anyway, thanks so much for those of you who have been reviewing! 33 reviews is more than I've ever gotten...probably because this is the longest story I've written, to date. **

**'Kay-on to the good stuff. Enjoy!**

The silence lasts only a couple seconds—just long enough for my heart to take up permanent residence in my shoes—but it might as well be all night. I fidget nervously as Cato rises to his feet, muscle by muscle as though in slow motion. Finnick stares him down, the fire in his gaze enough that a lesser man—perhaps a more intelligent man—would turn tail and run back to the second floor. Unfortunately, Cato is not that man, and he arrogantly meets Finnick's gaze, steps forward to stand abreast of me. If my heart could go any lower, it would be in the floor tiles, beating so hard the whole building would rattle.

"We were just having a chat," Cato shrugs. I shoot him a glance, lean away from him. The last thing I want is for Finnick to make something of this that it's not.

"Not the wisest thing to do on the night before the games." Finnick's remark is clipped, and it's hard to tell if he's angry with me, or with Cato…or both.

"What _would_ you have us doing?" Cato saunters forward, feigning innocent curiosity. "I mean, I get bored of sharpening weapons after a while, and I'm not allowed to kill anyone yet." Cato's harsh words, so stark against our earlier conversation, snap me out of my frigid, observatory state and I shuffle over to stand with Finnick. He affords me little more than a glance, caught up in his bristling exchange with Cato.

"I'd have Tobi sleeping, for one. I couldn't care less how you occupy your time…though I'm sure you can come up with something better than a late-night 'chat' with someone who might kill you." For unknown reasons, I find heat rising to my face. _Who'd have thought murder was such an intimate concept_…but my attentions are quickly drawn to where Cato and Finnick have practically begun squaring off. Each of their almost-calm retorts has been accompanied by a step forward, so that they stand nearly nose to nose with one another. As much as I dislike the conflict, now may be the time for me to step in…

"I don't think that one could kill me if she tried," Cato scoffs just as I step forward. He waves a hand at me, a look of scathing contempt across his features. I freeze, eye him carefully. Finnick steps just a hair towards me. "I mean look at her: short, bony, a little dense. She could barely lift a sword last time I checked. No, no," he leans forward, looks me dead in the eye. "If one of us is going to kill the other, I think you've got it backwards." His gaze flickers for a moment, and I find a sad little smirk dawning on my face. Poor Cato; he's made it profoundly clear that his conscience is completely on the fence about being the killing machine he wants to be—that _I _want him to be.

"Watch out, Two," I begin casually. "You know what they say about underdogs."

"I don't think you have it in you to kill, Four. When the time comes I'll snap you like a twig." His lip curls in a slight snarl, and for whatever reason my heart takes the elevator back to my ribcage. I'm okay with this—I could even be classified as happy about it. He's made it easy, again—easy to see him as a killer, a non-human; a destructible object.

"We'll see, Two," I whisper, turn to Finnick. "Come on—let's go back." He nods with a glare at Cato, puts a hand on my shoulder to gently push me ahead of him. I don't turn around as we round the corner, knowing that the hallway with Cato in it disappears just as the door to my chambers reappears. I don't ponder the odd light in Cato's eyes during our exchange of threats—I'm more than happy to remain on the surface of that particular dialogue and leave it at face value.

Finnick remains silent as we walk back through the door. This time around, the sunken living room and elevated dining room are dimly lit, so my bumbling rampage is not offered a chance to repeat. Thankfully, in light of my little outing, the suffocating atmosphere is gone. Or perhaps it simply dissipated along with the darkness when Finnick turned on the lights. I've never been afraid of the dark, before…but I've never had to kill anyone, either.

We've just descended the little stairs to walk through the living room when Finnick finally speaks. He's been a silent thunder cloud trailing behind me, and I can't decide whether I'm relieved or terrified now that he's decided to break the silence.

"Sit," he says simply. I turn to face him, see where he's pointing to the long, teal couch along the far edge of the room. With an inaudible sigh, I pad around the little cedar coffee table, bang my knee against one of the corners, and sit gingerly on the stiff cushion. All I want now is to go to sleep—it must be close to three in the morning by now, and tomorrow will be huge—but I suppose it's better for Finnick to comment now than, say, tomorrow at breakfast.

"Finnick, I—" I try to defend myself before he can comment, but he holds up a hand, so I obediently stop, look sheepishly down at my lap where my fingers have nervously knotted themselves.

"Tobi, I'm not going to yell at you or scold you or anything like that—it's not my job. I'm not here to make rules for you or lay down the law." He sighs heavily, relaxes from his intimidating, arms-crossed posture to sink into a cream chair cattycornered to the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers splayed and pressed together.

Suddenly I wish he _would _yell at me; it would be better than this quiet disappointment. "I'm your mentor, Tobi; that means I'm here to advise you, keep you safe and healthy and prepare you for the games. And what I just saw out there," he points over his shoulder toward the door to the hallway. "That was something I can't leave unchecked." He meets my gaze steadily. I can't hold it long.

"It wasn't what you think," I murmur. "It wasn't anything, really. I just went out to get some air and ran into Cato…" It sounds like a pretty feeble explanation, and I'm not surprised when Finnick's eyebrows go up.

"Really. So, instead of sleeping like a normal person, you just decided to go wander around in the middle of the night, and just _happened _to run into a Career from District 2? He shouldn't even have been on this floor!" At last, a touch of anger is seeping into Finnick's words, and I realize by the look in his blue eyes how worried he was. I nod slowly, force myself to meet his gaze.

"Come on, Finnick," I say gently, lean forward. "You know how bad the nightmares have been—you think I wanted to lay there and wait for my brain to outdo itself for this once-in-a-lifetime terror fest?!" There's more emotion in my voice than I intended there to be. _Breathe…_I take a deep breath, close my eyes sit back. When I finally open them again, I feel somewhere between calm and sad. "I just went out because the hallways are blue, and I had to get out of this…room." _A cage, really. _"I walked around for a bit, and then Cato found me. He was doing the same thing, but he wanted to get away from the other careers—at least, that's what he told me." My explanation has grown stark, voice tired. Finnick is staring at me with a look of mixed understanding and lingering worry. Worse, there's something…tragic in his face. He gets it—perhaps more than I want him to. It's human nature to want pity when we're in unenviable situations, but now that I've got it…_it's uncomfortable. _

"Alright, Tobi," Finnick says at last, rises to his feet and comes to sit next to me. He pats my knee, offers a sad little smile. "I understand—I was a tribute once, too, remember." I nod. "I just don't want this to be harder than it already is. Tobi…remember what happens when you get to the arena." His voice shakes a little; I wonder if he's remembering his games, or if he's thinking about mine. Or both.

"I know, Finnick. Everyone dies." _And everyone kills._ He stares at me for a long time. I can tell he knows what I'm thinking, and once again I am struck by the pity. I don't want it from him—just like I don't want understanding. I don't want the knowledge that Finnick went through the same things, and came out a good person, while I'm sitting here wondering how many I will kill. _How many I _can_ kill. _

"I know you know," Finnick says with a hollow chuckle. "But knowing it and preparing for it are two different things, little fish. Just be careful with your trust…and your friendship."

"I'm not friends with the career, if that's what you're thinking," I scoff lightly.

"You'd be surprised who we consider friends when it comes down to it," he says. Something in his voice tells a story, and it prompts me to ask,

"Finnick…how did you do it?"

"What?"

"How did you go into the arena and come out so…clean?" He looks at me in surprise, eyes lost beneath a thick overhang of silky red-blond hair. After a long moment, they drift back down, and his face grows more somber than I've ever seen it. _It's dark, somehow…_

"I'm not clean, little fish. The games…they corrupt. Even the best of us," he throws me a pointed look for the umpteenth time this evening. Well, morning, I suppose. I look down into my lap again, and to my great surprise Finnick reaches an arm around my shoulder, pulls my close in a half-hug, and plants a kiss against my hair before rising to his feet. "Alright, little fish—I'd say it's long past time you got some sleep. You'll need it," Finnick offers a wink as I stand and pass him. "Tomorrow's the biggest day of your life." I offer a tired smile, turn and walk away. As I close my bedroom door behind me, I'm once again enveloped in static darkness and the smile falls from my face. I climb into my little cot, and Finnick's words play through my head as my eyes close. _Biggest of my life, huh? _I roll over, stare at the wall. _It also might be the _last _day of my life…_

**Like I said: short. And quite a bit angsty...though that wasn't my original intention. Anyway, hope it sits okay with you all. I'll get crackin' on chapter 15 pretty soon, here, for those of you still interested. I hope you keep reading! (and reviewing, if you've got the time?)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Kay, on to chapter 15! Hurray! Hopefully I'm starting to make up for lost time? And this one's a bit lengthier than the previous two (though those will be combined at some point).**

**Also: Thanks SO much to all of my reviewers! I really would not be continuing without you.**

**Alright, enjoy!**

I wake up earlier than I should and stare at the ceiling as light filters sluggishly into the room. I glance to the clock on the wall, and it takes longer than it should to make out the numbers. My vision is oddly hazy. The big hand is on the 3, short hand on the 7.

7:15.

I have almost two hours before I'm meeting Finnick for my last go at personal training. Probably only one hour before Blye wobbles in to drag me to breakfast. I wonder if Oscar is awake yet. Probably not…any sane person would squeeze in as much sleep as possible this morning. After all, we might not get much for the next week or so…if we're lucky. _Better no sleep than eternal sleep._

I haven't lain awake long before an itch seems to settle over my body; a prickling restlessness that climbs up my legs and over my arms. Soon my fingers and toes are twitching, and after a few moments I give up. My system is wired, my brain buzzing to keep up with my adrenaline. By the time my heart starts thumping, I give up and throw my covers off. I feel instantly better with motion, blood humming in my ears like I've been given a shot of pure caffeine.

Well, I guess the morning of the games effects everyone differently.

The floor is cold against my bare feet—as though my system needs another jolt. Nevertheless, I stand quickly, pad to the far side of the room and grab the robe that hangs there on a hook. This morning, more than any other, is one for a shower. And not just because I might never get another one. I need the therapy of hot water.

For some reason, I choose this morning to experiment with the buttons in the shower. Every day up to now, I have played it safe: clicked the button for hot water, used the soap and shampoo available on the shelf. Today I find myself having fun, making the water ice cold, then scalding before finding a good temperature; playing with the scent buttons until I've been lathered with citrus orange, vanilla and thyme, hair drenched with something rather like lime. By the time I come out it's 8:00, my skin is tingling and I smell like something I might find on the breakfast table.

I dry quickly, return to the room and begin rustling through the drawers against the wall. There's an outfit waiting on my bed—who knows when Flux put it there—but I ignore it. The outfit is clearly meant for the games, and I'm not ready to wear my death suit just yet. Instead, I pull out a simple white tank top, followed by a pair of thick, black leggings, and yank a light blue jacket out of the closet.

By the time Blye opens the door twenty minutes later, I'm pulling a black boot onto my left foot, deftly tying the laces. My hair is braided across my forehead as usual, but today the braid continues back over the side of my head to meet the rest of my hair in a high ponytail. No doubt Flux will come up with something more functional later, but this will do for now.

"Well, aren't you ready early," Blye twitters cheerfully. I offer a wide, shockingly genuine smile and a nod.

"I just couldn't stay asleep very long, this morning," I confide. Blye offers a sympathetic smile, fidgets awkwardly, like she always does when we mention the true nature of what she likes to see as our "vacation to the capitol".

"Well, that's to be expected, dear," she says, pats me on the shoulder before following me out the door. I accept her comfort, but find that I'm not actually upset. Rather, it feels more like I'm excited…which can't be right. When I think about the arena—about facing the other tributes, wielding a weapon, surviving—my mind becomes blank with terror. Perhaps this jittery feeling is simply a defense mechanism, but suddenly I feel not only ready, but oddly invincible. Perhaps it's because, as I fought my nightmares last night, I came to a profound realization, an acceptance. _There's nothing I can do but trudge forward. _

"Good morning, Tobi," Finnick greets mildly. The smile on his face is forced, jaded.

"Good morning Finnick," I reply, tone subdued, but still chipper. "Oscar." Oscar nods to me before his gaze snaps back to his plate, where it appears he has arranged the untouched food in odd patterns. I look between the two of them as I lower slowly into a chair across from Finnick, smile fading from my face. Oscar's face is pale, eyes wide and red-rimmed. He looks as though he might pass out, or else start crying. Finnick has set his jaw, brows furrowed, eating scrambled eggs with a ritualistic determination. In the wake of these somber faces, my near giddiness fades to a dull nausea. How could I be so optimistic, when the morning marks the slow, painful execution of 23 children?

I feel ill, so that the eggs and fruit Blye piles on my plate nearly triggers my gag reflex. _Horrible…disgusting. _Not for the first time since my arrival in the capitol, I wonder whether something is wrong with me—whether perhaps I lack some crucial piece of humanity. _And here I was calling Cato the killer._ Cato…suddenly the nausea stills, and I pop a piece of melon into my mouth. Cato feels the same way. The thought isn't necessarily comforting—being comparable to the vicious career is a far cry from declaring humanity—but it's better than being the only one.

"So. Today I get a half hour with each of you before the games start," Finnick announces, at last pushing his plate away with a grimace. He looks to Oscar. "I'll meet with you first—our slot is at nine. Tobi, you come down at 9:30. We're in Training Room 2—the one on the left." He looks carefully between the two of us. "Listen, both of you avoid the other tributes." His gaze lingers on mine just a fraction of a second too long. "In order to get everyone in before the games start at 3, both training rooms are being used, so two districts will be training at once at all times. District 3 will be training in the room next to us…and District 2 will have our room right before us, so they'll all be around. Don't talk to them, don't exchange glares, nothing. Got it?" Oscar nods minutely, but I meet Finnick's gaze squarely.

"Got it."

"Alright—break!" Finnick stands with a more energetic smile than I was expecting. I follow his lead and stand quickly, leaving the rest of my fruit to bleed into my untouched eggs. It's almost nine—I haven't got long to wait. As it is, Oscar and Finnick immediately head to the elevator; they'll want to arrive at the room before the other district leaves, so as not to waste a moment. I lazily pad back to my room, saunter over to my wardrobe. My little figurine catches my eyes, perched innocently atop the wooden fixture. I've largely forgotten about it, so wrapped up in the looming games. I scoop it up, allow my fingers to probe it's delicate surface as I sit on the edge of my cot. Suddenly it's like a dam is breaking; I don't cry, but a great weight is released from somewhere in my chest. For the first time in days, the faces of Grandma, Brook, Mag and Hiram float through my mind in a happy glow, and they aren't crying. Their smiling. _Well, and I suppose that's it,_ I realize. _There's your motivation, Tobi. You're not a killer…you just want to go home. _

I remember suddenly that we're allowed to bring a token into the games, as long as it's approved. I see no reason why I couldn't bring the little fish with me—it's not sharp, and it's far too delicate to be used as a weapon, anyway. _The question is how to carry it…_I twist it through y fingers. It could break in a pocket…but there's no real way to attach it anywhere. A necklace, maybe? No…that could prove inconvenient.

At last, I settle on carving a little hole in the base of one of the wings, where the bone is strong and less brittle, using a cheese fork left on the kitchen table. It takes a while, and by the time I've created a suitable hole it's about time for me to head down to the training room. I stand reluctantly, having become absorbed in y little project, and leave the fish on my bed. When I come back, I will decide what to put through the hole, and where to attach it.

I do some simple stretches on the elevator ride to the basement, loosen my shoulders and limber up my knees and back until my muscles are warm. I don't know what I'm expecting—I have no idea what Finnick has in mind for this last training session. We've been spending our one-on-ones experimenting with new tools and working on my stamina and speed. Perhaps today will be the same…though I doubt it.

I'm completely engrossed in thought when the elevator lets out an ominous _ding_ and glides to a stop. My eyes have fixated on one spot, so I step forward without lifting my gaze from the floor, trusting that when I reach them the doors will have opened. I'm moving in a sort of meditative trance…so I don't see the figure of a person until I've run into it.

My first reaction is one of panic; Finnick's words from earlier run through my head, and I know this must be someone from District one or two. _Please, not Cato!_ I start to lift my gaze slowly, but haven't made it past the black-clad knees before a hand yanks me out of the elevator and slams me against the wall. I gasp, claw at the hand that's clenched in the front of my shirt and kick aimlessly. My feet no longer touch the floor, and the collar of my shirt presses painfully against my windpipe. Hazily my eyes meet the onyx gaze of my attacker, and I can't help but sneer. _Clove, huh?_

"What do you want, Two?" I manage to gasp out, though it sounds less than intimidating. Clove's face is mean—dark, hard eyes, arched eyebrows, a smattering of freckles across a sharp nose and thin lips. She leans forward, her sneer much more convincing than mine.

"Nothing I can't manage in the arena," she whispers into my face, grin stretching for a moment before disappearing altogether. She pulls me away from the wall, drops me on the floor. "I heard Cato paid you a visit last night, Four." I scramble to my feet, glare up at her. I consider warning her of the consequences of pre-game violence, but think better of it. She knows the rules…and clearly she doesn't care.

"He did," I respond as evenly as I can. "What about it?" She laughs—a sharp, mean bark, rather like one of the small, fluffy dogs capitol people own.

"Just watch your step, Four," she growls, grin returning. "I don't know what Cato said to you—whatever _ideas_ you've gotten—don't think we won't hunt you down right off the bat." I force myself to shrug, even though a shiver runs up my spine.

"Hunt all you like, you still have to find me." I lean forward with a smile of my own. "Then you have to catch me." Unfortunately, Clove all out laughs this time, shoves me into the wall and starts to walk away.

"Alright, Four, if that's how you want to play. But just remember that when we catch you," she stops, turns to sneer over her shoulder, "Cato will be the first one to rip you in half. And of course, I'll be the second." With that she turns back around, saunters down the hall with her hand raised in mocking farewell. "Happy Hunger Games, Four!"

I stand there somewhere between terror and fury for probably five minutes, rooted to the stark white tiles. That was a definite threat…and Clove made it clear she spoke on behalf of all the careers. But why am I a target? They can't think I'm threatening…first on their list should be Thresh, or the pair from twelve…not me. _Well, but perhaps that _wasn't _on behalf of the careers—perhaps it was just Clove. She's Cato's district partner…was she _jealous?

"Tobi!" I spin around, hands raised in automatic defense. Finnick has come out of the training room with Oscar, and they share a look of confusion. "What are you doing?" I open my mouth to answer, gesture wordlessly down the hall. I probably look like a carp as I try to find the right words—or really just unravel my tongue. After a moment I give up, shrug gruffly and stride over to them.

"Nothing—let's train." I stomp into the training room, heart hammering. More than anything—more than the training, the interviews or the nightmares—my encounter with Clove has made the games seem real, larger than life and impossibly close. My death stared me in the face, today, and it's eyes were hard onyx shards. No doubt, it will find me again in the arena. _Later today,_ my brain reminds me. I take a deep, shaky breath. How far I've fallen from my near excitement this morning.

"Alright," Finnick concedes carefully, turns to dismiss Oscar and closes the door on his way back in. "Take a seat." He gestures to the benches against the wall, takes a seat himself. I walk over to take the bench next to his, hook my feet underneath and clench my hands in my lap. He takes in my posture with no more than a raised eyebrow. "Well, today is really up to you," he says at last. My eyes flick up.

"What?"

"You decide what we do in these last 30 minutes." He leans back, holds out his hands in offering. "We can talk strategy, or we can work on more tools, whatever you feel you need at this point. The one thing I would suggest is nothing straining—save your strength for later." _You'll need it._ The words hover in the air, and I sink even further into my combined fear and desperate determination.

"I suppose strategy would be a good idea," I mutter. "I think I've got a good repertoire of things to build." I offer a smile. He nods, returns the smile.

"Okay, then…did you have a plan in mind?" I shrug, shake my head.

"Not really…I know I can't hang around long, though. I don't want to get caught up in the mess at the cornucopia." I avoid calling it the Bloodbath. "I was thinking I would grab what I could—I'm faster than most of the careers, and everyone else will be trying to get out fast. I'd probably just run straight for the cornucopia, grab something on the fly and continue past it, depending on where I come up…" I trail off. My plan is incomplete at best, but even as I speak I see Finnick start to frown.

"Okay, I see what you're thinking," he murmurs. "But I have some advice for you. I think the run-by is a good idea: you don't want to get caught in the bloodbath, but it's just as bad to end up in the arena without any supplies." I nod, trying not to flinch at his pointed labeling of the bloodbath. His countenance is hard—he knows I don't like the term, and he also knows that I need to hear it and get accustomed to the event it represents.

"Okay," I nod, waiting for the "but" of his statement.

"I think everything will depend on where you come up. If there are trees, make for those, even if it means doubling back. They're safer. If there is water, don't stay by it for too long—the careers will probably take control of any obvious water source, and if you're there when they get there…" I gulp, and surprisingly so does Finnick. I notice suddenly that what I took for hardness in his face is actually tension. His eyes are crisp, somewhere between fierce and teary, and I realize how much he hates sending us into the arena.

"So…make for trees and stay away from water," I nod. He shakes his head.

"Not all water, of course…I guess, as a rule, stay away from centralized locations and open spaces. My advice is to grab what you can, and make for whatever cover there is. Then just continue _away_ from the center. Get as far as you can. When you stop for the night, make sure you're out of the way—up high, or well hidden. And unless it's so cold you'll die, don't light a fire at night. It's a dead location giveaway." I nod slowly, mentally filing away the information. It may be crucial later. Particularly with the careers targeting me…I frown, the scene with Clove replaying in my head.

"Finnick," I begin before launching into a short account of the event. Finnick listens, expression growing ever more serious. "What do I do if they come after me?" I search his gaze, watch his eyes darken as he sinks into thought. Finally he releases a breath through his nose, twists his mouth to the side.

"Well, obviously you've got two options: fight or flight." I nod, impatient. "If you can, I would run. Avoid conflict with the careers until the last minute; let them take out the other tributes. Focus on running and hiding, so that by the time they get to you, some of them have been killed off."

Before I know it our time is up, and Finnick stands, waits for me to follow suit. I am numb; talking strategy has been the final straw in my recognition that the games are going to start in five hours, and if I don't play my cards right I'll be dead by the sixth.

"Finnick," my whisper is so quiet that for a moment, I don't think he heard me. But he stops and turns around, eyebrows raised. I find that the corners of my eyes prickle with tears that I refuse to release. I take a shaky breath, meet Finnick's gaze. "Is there a way to get rid of fear?" Something settles over his face, as though it's melting. For a second he stares at me with that crystalline expression. Finally he shakes his head, clicks his tongue and strides forward. I'm enveloped in a firm hug, head against the hollow of his shoulder. I feel him rest his chin on my head, arms squeezing against my ribcage. I close my eyes, and for a moment I wish, more than anything, that he would hug me too hard, implode my ribs and crush my heart.

"There's a trick I learned from Mags when I was a tribute," he says, releasing the hug to hold me at arm's length and meet my gaze." I quirk an eyebrow.

"Did it help?" He nods with a chuckle.

"Have you ever known Mags to give unhelpful advice?" I shrug, shake my head. Mags is a uniquely wise woman. "Mags told me, 'remember that we are from water. Water gives us strength.'" He squeezes my shoulders, but I'm not reassured.

"What about when there isn't any water?" He offers a knowing smirk, leans close to whisper.

"There's _always _water, little fish. It's in everything—every plant, every animal, the ground, even stone. You just have to find it." I crack a smile and nod. Finnick flicks my ponytail and follows me out of the room.

I spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon preparing for the games. I stay in my room, stretch, do a few simple exercises. And I lay on my back, in the middle of the room with my arms outstretched and my eyes closed, imagining that I'm on the deck of the Bobber.

The only bothersome thing is that my little figurine is gone. When I reentered the room after training, it had disappeared. For perhaps half an hour, I searched frantically, desperate to retain this tangible piece of home. But eventually I gave up; it was gone, and I needed the remaining time to clear my mind and prepare myself, emotionally.

At 2:30, Blye comes to get me. I've dutifully donned the simple black shirt, canvas pants and heavy boots. The fabric is heavy, but the shirt is short sleeved. I guess there's going to be a pretty wide range of temperatures. The boots are heavy-duty—made for a range of terrains—but not for ice or mountains, so I guess I can rule those out.

"I'll take you as far as the hovercraft," Finnick says when I meet him in the hall. "You'll board along with the other tributes, then you'll be taken to the launching facility. Flux is waiting for you there." I nod, and the terror must be evident on my face, because Finnick offers a sympathetic glance and squeezes my arm as he leads me to the elevator. The trip is short: we take the elevator all the way up the tower, past the penthouse, and stop at the roof. It lets us out onto a large Launchpad. I don't know if the other tributes have already boarded or not, but we're the only ones out there aside from a monstrous craft, like some huge fly squatting on a fish carcass. I take a step toward it, but Finnick catches my arm. I turn around, ponytail whipping in the wind. He takes my hand, squeezes it.

"One more piece of advice, little fish," he says. "Don't step off your mark early; they'll blow you sky high." I nod somberly. I know what he's doing; everyone knows that if you step off early an explosion will go off underfoot. Finnick is reminding me that if I make a wrong move, the capitol has ways of ending things, themselves. The careers are far from my only problem.

I clamber up the stairs into the craft and find that most of the tributes have gathered in parallel rows of seats, facing one another. I pause for a moment—there doesn't seem to be an order in which to sit. The careers have already taken many of the seats along one side of the craft, and tributes from 11 and 5 have taken the rest. The other side is spottily filled with everyone except 12, 8, 10 and 4. My options are sadly limited…eventually I select a seat next to the girl from 11, with no one on my right. Hopefully Oscar will sit there when he arrives…anything is better than sitting across from the careers, where I'd no doubt endure Clove's glare the entire flight.

I've been sitting perhaps two minutes when Oscar climbs the steps and I wave him over. It's been perhaps three more when the tributes from 10 and 8 arrive in a clump. Then another five before the boy from 12 arrives. We wait.

"Of course it'd be Twelve," someone scoffs. It might have been Clove. Everyone's getting restless…I myself am tapping my feet against the metal grates in the floor, hands clenched in my lap, a thin sheen of sweat over my brow. The passenger hold is uncomfortably warm, made all the worse by 23 nervous bodies.

Finally, ten minutes later, Katniss Everdeen decides to make an appearance and we take off. Within moments people with needles invade the space, coming up to us one at a time.

"W-what is that?" I ask as a woman approaches me wielding the small sword she intends to stick into my arm. She doesn't answer before jamming the thing up the basilic vein in my right arm. I hiss air through my teeth, watch a little glow move with my bloodstream.

"That's your tracker." She says callously as she walks away. _Tracker._ I look up, find my gaze caught by Katniss Everdeen. In that instant, I'm sure we're both thinking the same thing: now the only way out is to die…or win.

**Oh my gosh, we're so close to the games I can almost taste it! Like a metallic tang in the back of my throat, like when you get a nosebleed. At least, that's what I imagine Tobi is experiencing about now. Next up: Flux's final farewell, and let the games begin!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey, all! Here's the next installment for _Ghost_! This chapter's a little shorter than the last, but hopefully still worth the read. And at long last, this is the big chapter: it marks game: start! Hurray!**

**I know chapter 16 is no big mile marker, but considering we finally made it to the games, I'd say a big thank you from me is in order. So, thank you _profusely_ for following Tobi this far, and leaving so many wonderful comments! It really has made all the difference, and I hope you will consider to support this fic through the rest of Tobi's adventure.**

**Love you all!**

**S.S.**

The craft lands perhaps twenty minutes later on a building which bears shocking resemblance to the one we just left. The machine releases a soft whine as it powers down, as though forlorn. I smile to myself—I never expected to get more sympathy from a machine than from my fellow humans.

We unload in utter silence and with slow, deliberate steps. The careers lead the pack, leaving the rest of us to carefully place one foot after another. Stepping off the craft is far more terrifying than boarding it. Worse still is watching the wings flutter back to life and lift their heavy, insectan body away into the indigo; we've been left stranded on an island of metal and glass to watch our only escape buzz away on a head wind.

Once the craft is a mere black spot in the sky, a swarm of Avox's emerge from within the building, escort us off the roof one by one. I'm approached by a dark-haired boy who takes my arm in exchange for a small, sad smile. As I allow him to lead me away, my gaze remains glued to the sky until a heavy metal door blocks it from view. I hope whatever the arena's design we have a good view of the sky.

The hallways are painfully bright-fluorescent lights ricochet from the stark white walls and tiled floors-and so labyrinthine I'm shocked my guide can navigate them. By the time we reach our destination (yet another heavy, metal door) I'm blinking and disoriented. The Avox knocks on the door three times, steps back and nudges me forward with another bitter smile.

"Thank you," I nod. For a split second, I imagine that his smile stretches into something bordering on genuine, then the door clicks open. With a final nod to the Avox, I step into a room only slightly less stark than the hallway, but of an infinitely preferable light scheme. I notice Flux instantly where he stands beside a mostly empty clothes rack. I walk to him as one half-dead, legs stiff and spine oddly straight, eyes fixed on a spot in the air right beside his head. When I reach him, Flux engulfs me in a fierce, though short, bear hug. I'm a little surprised; Flux and I have a good relationship, but it's never really been warm and fuzzy. Nonetheless, when he holds me away after the hug, there are tears in his eyes. For a moment we simply stare at each other, communicating something mutual and beyond words. A shared recognition, perhaps, that he is just as helpless as me and Oscar and Finnick.

Wordlessly, Flux reaches for the single jacket on the rack, holds it out for me. I slip my arms inside, movements jerky from nerves. The material is light, but insulated.

"Looks like you'll have some cold nights," Flux comments as though reading my mind, then holds out both fists. "Pick a hand." I raise an eyebrow, point at the right. He scoffs, shrugs. "Close enough." He opens his left hand, palm up, and I can't suppress a gasp. In his hand, my little figurine perches confidently, a little wire threaded through the hole I made.

"Flux…" I start, unsure of what to say. He holds up his free hand.

"You need a token, right? Now, this little wire can weave into the zipper of this pocket," he gestures to a little zipped, clear plastic pocket on the inside of my jacket, leans in to attach the little fish. "There, see? Now it won't break, and you won't lose it. Unless you lose your jacket, that is." I'm beaming; the little fish seems to waggle its wings at me from inside its little pocket. I meet Flux's gaze.

"What on earth could a pocket like that be meant for?" I ask slyly. He shrugs, looks away.

"Well…that jacket may be one of the very few with a pocket like that…" he trails off, gives me a wink. I get it—he had the pocket installed just for me, which is technically against regulations. He could get in a considerable amount of trouble.

"Thanks, Flux."

"Anything for you, Tobi." A hissing sound startles both of us, and my head snaps to the left. A large, clear tube occupies the left wall of the room, and half of the cylinder is sliding over to present an opening. I gulp; I'm supposed to get in there.

"I guess this is it." The words sound strained and far away, as though from someone else's mouth. Flux reaches both hands forward and squeezes my shoulders.

"Tobi…we all believe in you," he whispers. "You're stronger than you think. Trust me. I'd put my money on you." I nod, start for the tube. I seem at first to make no progress at all, despite my even footsteps. Then all at once I'm there; one step up and I'll be in the tube. I hesitate, turn around. Flux offers a grave nod, then breaks into a grin and gestures to his jacket, clearly referring to the fish. I chuckle, and he holds a finger to his mouth.

Without giving myself the chance to run away, I turn and climb into the tube. No sooner have I passed the curved, plastic wall than the door slides shut with a mechanical hiss punctuated by a sudden, thick absence of sound. My heart jumps in panic, and I spin around, hands pressed against the plastic. Flux grins at me, meets my gaze and points to his head. I nod, turn slowly around and look toward the circle of light perhaps 6 feet above me. _Keep your head, Tobi,_ I tell myself. _Use your brain. Don't panic._ I've seen what happens when tributes succumb to mind-numbing panic; it never ends well. Flux probably knows this even better than I.

Abruptly the floor beneath my feet starts to rise. I'm in a human-sized straw, being sucked up by the capitol, and the light is growing ever closer. My breath condenses against the tube wall as I glare straight at my own reflection in the plastic, forcing myself to remain calm. _Breathe in, breath out…_My glare is fierce. Good. It's never a bad idea to look scary.

Within moments, my head breaks the surface, and my eyes snap closed against the sudden glare of light. _Calm…be patient. You've still got 40 seconds. 39…38…_On the 35th second I open my eyes, allow them to flicker spottily around the arena. I could cry in relief. Directly across from me, just past the cornucopia, is the end of a considerable forest. To its right is a shimmering lake. _Water!_

It takes everything I have to tear my eyes away from the lake. Obviously I can't go there…it's exactly the kind of place Finnick told me to stay away from. That leave the trees, or…no. I barely afford a glance to the thick, tall grasses over the rest of the arena before turning back to the cornucopia and scanning the assortment of packs and weapons seemingly spewed from the mouth of the great, metallic horn. My best bet is probably to grab one of the packs littering the ground. It won't be difficult to hook the straps as I run by…

_Knees bent, head forward, eyes fixed…muscles coiled but not tense…_I carefully shift on my pedestal, eyes glued not to the flashing numbers above the cornucopia, but on a large, black pack perhaps three yards ahead of me. My heart has somehow synchronized with the deep, hollow sound of seconds passing by; every one of my cells seems to wait for the blast signaling game: start, and part of me wonders if maybe my heart will simply explode when at last it sounds.

As an afterthought, I wonder where Oscar came up. I almost look up to try and spot him, but the incessant beating warns me not to. I'd be in quite a fix if the proverbial gunshot went off while I was distracted…

_5…4…_my blood roars in my ears right up until a golden 2 is hovering above the cornucopia. Then, for an impossible eternity, my biological functions seem to stop. Everything is completely silent, still, and glued to the 1 flashing in front of me.

Then the canon goes off, and the world explodes.

**There, you see? We made it! Now, let's just hope Tobi can hold out through the bloodbath...also, I realize that technically I've robbed you of the excitement of starting the games all at once, but I wanted to sort of separate Tobi's last conversation with Flux and her dive into the games. You know, sort of the "before the games" and then the games. So the next chapter, as you can imagine, will be as action-packed as I can make it. I would say something like "i won't post till I get such and such reviews," because I've seen that work for other people, but let's face it: I will totally still post when I feel like posting. So I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and stay tuned!**


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